The Call of the Day
by SaraiEsq
Summary: What's behind Mike Stoker's hoarseness at roll call? Is Chet right - did Mike forget get how to talk on his days off? Or, is something else going on? This is the story I promised Mike I would finish writing in "A Late Night ...".
1. Chapter 1

**THE CALL OF THE DAY**

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Patty, her parents, and Rand) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are. This disclaimer also applies to the brief appearance of our favorite boys in dark blue, Adam-12. _

_Additional notes accompany Chapter 3. Dates are used throughout, but don't get too hung up on them. _

_And, before you ask, yes, there are some background sketches I plan to write related to this story._

_But now, without further ado, …  
straight from Station 51 to you …  
the story I promised Mike I'd finish. _

_Stoker, take it away!_

…

_Uh, Mike?  
…_  
…

_Hey, Mike! Where are you? (mumbling) Geez, give a guy a story and then he disappears. What am I gonna do now? (snaps fingers) Ah-ha! I know. (louder) Uh, Cap? Can I talk to you for just a minute?_

* * *

**Chapter 1 **

=+++= / +====

(17 July)

"Roll call in five, gentlemen," Captain Hank Stanley of Station 51 called out to his men, the scrape of chairs from the kitchen and the banging of doors from the locker room letting him know he'd been heard.

"DeSoto?"

"Here, sir," Roy replied calmly.

"Gage?"

"Here, Cap!" Johnny chirped happily.

"Kelly?"

"Here," Chet said smugly.

"Lopez?"

"Here," Marco responded genially.

"Annnd, Stoker?"

"Here," Mike croaked in reply, wincing slightly.

"Hey, you okay there, pal?" Captain Stanley asked, clapping a hand on his engineer's shoulder.

"Whadya do? Forget how to talk on your days off?" Chet asked, jumping in before Mike could reply.

"Just a sore throat," Stoker said hoarsely, ignoring the other man's joke.

"I know just the thing to fix you up! My grandmother used to make this herbal tea for –," Chet started in a more kindly tone of voice.

"Later, Kelly!" the captain barked without heat.

"Sorry, Cap!"

"Alrighty then," he continued, "back to our required reading for the morning."

After roll call was finished and the morning's tasks assigned, Chet sidled up to Mike and said, "Seriously, babe. What you need is a cup of my grandmother's herbal tea, with honey. It's great stuff. I've got some in my locker if you want to try it."

"Chet, uh, why do you have your grandmother's tea in your locker?"

"Uh, it actually, uh, helps after eating a little too much smoke, too. Granddad was a firefighter, ya know."

"Ahh," the engineer replied scratchily, glad there were no paramedics in sight to check out his throat. "If this doesn't resolve soon, I'll take you up on it. Thanks, man." Chet nodded and headed off to clean the latrines. _Forget how to talk_, Mike thought with a smile for Big Red's massive control panel. _Chet, if you only knew!_

=+++= / ++===

(18 July)

The next morning when his shift ended, Mike Stoker headed across town, arriving only a few minutes before the meeting started. He had just stepped through the door and pulled off his sunglasses when he heard someone call his name. "Mike! Saved you a seat."

"Hey, thanks, Patty," he replied, crossing the room to sit down next to an attractive young woman with an abundance of dark hair. Perhaps fifteen other people were settling into their chairs around the large conference table.

"Did you and Big Red get into any trouble yesterday?" she asked impishly, knowing he'd just come off-shift and sometimes had good stories to tell. Patty knew he didn't tell her all the stories he could; he glossed over the more horrific incidents, certainly. Today, however, Mike looked relaxed and not too tired, so she figured it had been a good quiet day.

Before he could reply, a thin man with oversized glasses stood up and called the meeting to order. Mike settled for flashing Patty a smile and whispering, "Nothing I couldn't talk my way out of."

"Okay, folks, thanks for coming. The final totals aren't in yet, but it looks like our last event was a great success." Light applause, high-fives, and a whoop or two broke out around the table of volunteers. Bill held up his hands unnecessarily for quiet and continued. "But, as usual, we've got no time to rest on our laurels because, drum roll please, we have more events coming up." Mock groans ensued. "Now, next month, we have two small fundraisers – on the eleventh and the fourteenth – and then the gala event at the Exhibit Hall on the seventeenth and eighteenth." He paused as pocket calendars were pulled out, opened, and marked. "Mike, your schedule is the tightest most of the time, so why don't we start with you. What shifts do you think you can take this time around?"

Consulting the schedule he'd copied down at the station that morning, Stoker replied succinctly, "The fourteenth is no problem, Bill, but the seventeenth is completely out. I can take the later shifts on the eleventh and the eighteenth, though, if it helps. And I can help with the promotions, of course."

"Good. I don't know if Charlie will be up to calling two days in a row, but I'm sure Frank can handle things until you get there on the eighteenth, can't you, Frank?" An older man wearing a tweed jacket nodded. "And it looks like there'll be plenty of work to do even if Charlie is in top form – our Patty Mack has those donations rolling in."

"All for a good cause," Patty chirped, green eyes laughing.

=+++= / +++==

(18 July)

When John Gage arrived home that morning, all he wanted to do was sleep. He and Roy had responded to three runs during the night, the last of which hadn't turned out well at all. The attempted suicide call had come much too late for them to help, but that knowledge hadn't taken the sour taste out of his mouth. The victim's mother had taken it hard and blamed them for not being able to help her boy.

After a long shower, the dark-haired paramedic tumbled into bed and much-needed rest. Most of his neighbors worked during the day – which made it easy to grab a nap when he came off shift. The ones who didn't tended to be quiet. There were exceptions, including the young couple three doors down, but they weren't, as a rule, morning people so he was able to drift off to sleep with only the usual sounds of the day filtering into his apartment.

A few hours later, a new sound insinuated itself into his dream, mixing with it then calling him out of sleep.

_He was standing in the hallway outside the teenager's bedroom. His partner had entered the room first and quickly checked the body on the blood-splattered bed. When Roy shook his head to signify the boy had been successful, Johnny had not been all that surprised. He turned to carry the unneeded equipment back to the squad and was stopped by the victim's mother. "Where are you going? Why aren't you helping my son?" she shrieked up at him, blocking his way. "I'm very sorry, ma'am, there's nothing we can do," Johnny said gently. "You have to try!" she shrieked again, grabbing his wrists more tightly than he'd ever thought possible from a woman her size. The equipment he'd been carrying fell to the floor with a double thud. He heard a rumble of sound and looked down to see her small, careworn hands transform into thick, sticky ropes, and wind tightly around his wrists and forearms, binding them together painfully. A double thud from the bedroom caused Johnny to look through the doorway again. Roy was sprawled across the bed now, wrists bleeding profusely, while a surly-faced teenager with empty eyes stared down at his handiwork. "Johnny, do something! Help me!" his partner called out. "I can't," Johnny said, desperately pulling at the ropes. "My hands are tied." The door slowly began to close and Johnny tried to bring his arms up enough to push the door open again. During the next rumble of sound, one of his arms flew free, and smacked into – _

The solid oak nightstand beside his own bed. _Ouch_. As his pulse slowed, Johnny could hear the noises from his dream here in the waking world, too.

_Rumble, thud-thud. Rumble, thud-thud._

There was something familiar about the sound coming through the half-open window, he thought, eyes shielded by the arm now thrown over his face.

_Rumble, thud-**thud**. Rumble, **thud**-thud._

Drums. Not from a rock-n-roll band, but from his past – tribal drums. The distinctive, melancholic resonances of a native flute joined the drums then. Tucking his hands behind his head, Johnny found himself soothed by the sounds and the well-worn memories they called forth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

=+++= / +====

(18-19 July)

Hank Stanley wanted to be a good captain to his men, a good leader. Most of the time, he believed in himself, in his crew, and in his ability to lead them. Sometimes, however, he felt unequal to the task. A chance meeting with Chief McConnike, for example, could send him into a minor tailspin. That's usually when he started checking out books from the library – self-improvement, leadership principles, success at work, teambuilding, trust exercises, the whole gamut – anything that might give him a leg-up on being a better leader, that might soothe those niggling feelings of inadequacy. Often, the books would suggest exercises in teambuilding or leadership, and Hank would pitch the ideas to his men.

After the incident with the toenail clippers, they had all become a little wary when Cap came to work with an armload of _those_ books. They couldn't exactly stop him from suggesting they try something new but it was hard to be enthusiastic about it sometimes.

During this last shift, Cap had taped index cards with encouraging quotes and slogans throughout the station for his men to find and be, you know, encouraged by at odd moments. Not even the latrines had been exempt. It had been a strange experience, to say the least.

When Roy DeSoto had come home that morning, he had talked about it with his wife over breakfast. "I just don't understand it, Jo," he said in between bites of maple-syrup drenched pancake. "Hank Stanley is the best captain I've ever had. He really is a leader of men. I cannot for the life of me figure out what he wants to accomplish with these books, and exercises, and quotations." He frowned at the sausage link he'd just picked up, as if it were keeping the answers from him.

"If you think he's such a great leader, Roy, then why don't you want to follow him in this, too?" Joanne asked shrewdly, laughing at Roy's surprised expression and the sausage link frozen halfway into his now-open mouth.

Before the next shift, Roy was able to share Joanne's insight with the other guys, asking them to think about it. When Cap was distracted by a call in his office about mid-morning the next day, they had a quick meeting in the dayroom. Chet summed it up best: "We'd all follow Cap into a burning building any day of the week and twice on Sundays, without question or hesitation, but then we balk on this," he waved his hand expressively, "stuff? We've been real …," he paused, searching for the right word.

"Twits," Johnny put in, lips twitching at what was apparently Cap's favorite word for he and Chet.

"Exactly. Thanks, Johnny. Yeah, we've been real twits, not to give these things a chance at least. Whaddya say, guys?"

"I _still_ draw the line at having Johnny cut my toenails for me while he's blindfolded," Marco said, wincing at the memory along with Johnny, "but I'm willing to give _other_ stuff a try." They all laughed, agreeing.

Privately, Roy also decided _he_ could work on being a better follower and vowed to work _with_ Hank whenever he got into one of _those_ moods. Maybe that way he could derail some of Cap's extreme ideas – like the Trust Me With Your Toenails exercise – especially when he hopped onboard the McConnikee Paranoia Express.

=+++= / ++===

(19 July, cont.)

_Engine 51 … kitchen fire … time out 1545…_

Kelly stepped off the engine as it slowed and jogged back to grab the feeder line. He draped the hose around the hydrant and placed his foot firmly on the end. The light gray ribbon of hose slipped gracefully off the hose bed as Mike pulled forward and stopped. Chet spun the cap off the hydrant and connected the hose, waiting until he received the ready signal to open it up. He noted light smoke drifting out of a half-open kitchen window as he caught up with the engine.

A smoke-smudged teenager appeared from across the street as Stanley sized up the situation. "Did you call us?" he asked the boy.

"Yeah, I, uh, oh, man, my mom's gonna kill me!" he said, staring at his smoking house.

"Tell me what happened, son," Hank prompted.

"I was hungry when I got home from school. Mom wasn't home so I, uh, decided to reheat the pizza from last night. After a while, I could smell it getting hot, so I-I went to check on the pizza. When I opened the oven door, the-the smoke just poured out. I didn't know what to do – I just ran outta there and, and called you."

"You did the right thing, son, getting out. Now just let us handle it," Hank said soothingly. "Lopez! Kelly! Sounds like the fire started in the oven in the kitchen. Grab an inch-and-a-half and check it out."

"Got it, Cap," Lopez answered for both men who pulled the requested line and headed into the rambling two-story house. They followed a thickening haze of smoke past a formal living room and around a corner into the kitchen. Kelly directed a tight stream of water at the smoking wall oven, the water hissing back as steam at first. When the smoke and steam dissipated, Chet turned the water off and Marco stepped around him to tentatively examine the contents of the blackened oven. "Pizza box," he said, grabbing the soggy steaming remains in his gloved hands and heading toward the back door.

"Figures," Chet groused, reaching over to twist the oven control knob to OFF. "Pizza oughta come with a warning – 'remove pizza from box before reheating'." He began to check for hot spots or other signs the fire had spread.

"You said it, _amigo_," Marco said in agreement. _I hope we're back at the station in time for that Julia Child show_, he thought as he went out the door. _The TV Guide said it would be the one on sauces. I love that one!_

=+++= / +++==

Later that day, Johnny went to get a book from his locker. He found an index card neatly taped to the door: _Like a welcome summer rain, humor may suddenly cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you. (Langston Hughes)_. Suspecting the Phantom was borrowing a page from Cap's book of quotations, Johnny carefully opened his locker, staying well behind the door as he did. Sure enough, something in his locker went SPROING! and a small poof of blue confetti flew out, scattering messily over the floor and the bench. "Didn't get me this time, Chester B.," he said, congratulating himself on staying confetti-free. Humming happily, Johnny snagged a nearby broom so he could sweep up the confetti and –

SPROING! SPLASH! Flap-flap-flap!

Dripping from a water bomb triggered when he had pulled the – he now realized – oh-so-conveniently-available broom, Johnny read a _second_ index card which had flopped down from the ceiling to dangle on the end of fishing line at just _his_ eye level and couldn't help laughing.

_The secret to humor_, it read_, is surprise. (Aristotle)._

=+++= / ++++=

(24 July)

"Roll call in five, gentlemen! The call of the day is … things you dislike." Captain Stanley's voice boomed amiably through the station at the start of their next shift. Most of the crew was in the kitchen grabbing a morning cup or checking the paper, so they trooped out in plenty of time.

"DeSoto?"

"Okra."

"Gage?"

"Rattlesnakes!"

"Lopez?"

"_Muy grande_ hairballs."

"Stoker?"

"Smudgy fingerprints on just-polished chrome."

"And … ah, Kelly?"

"Here, sir!" Chet said and skidded into place at the end of the line, tucking in his shirt as he did.

"Call of the day, Kelly!" Hank replied, amused despite himself. The call of the day had quickly become one of the men's favorites. They could opt out of answering by volunteering to do the latrines.

"Uh, … latrines?" Chet guessed as he shoved his car keys into his pocket.

"Splendid, Kelly, splendid. And, as for me, the thing I dislike is … fish," Stanley said, completing roll call. Johnny snorted at the look on Chet's face when he learned the call of the day, but composed himself at Cap's mild look in his direction. "Alrighty then, moving on. Looks like you have some mail, Mike." He paused dramatically. "C-shift said a young woman with big green eyes dropped it off early this morning." Hank bit the inside of his cheek at the way the other guys ogled it the manila envelope he handed his engineer.

"Thanks, Cap," he replied, taking the big envelope and tucking it nonchalantly under his arm.

"Aren't ya gonna open it?" Chet asked, peering down the line and catching a glimpse of the green handwriting.

"Later," Stoker replied with a small smile, mostly for the guys' reactions. Captain Stanley continued with the morning announcements and dismissed the men to their chores, giving Gage latrine duty instead of Kelly since Chet's answer _was_ reasonable and John _had_ snorted. Before getting started on the dorms, Mike stowed the envelope in his locker, noting it was Patty's neat script that spelled out his name and station: **Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker, Station 51, LACoFD**.

=+++= / +++++

_Engine 51 … kitchen fire … time out 1036…_

Once on scene, Marco and Chet immediately hopped off the engine. Although the lack of visible smoke suggested the fire was minor, Marco automatically pulled a supply line to the hydrant directly in front of the small apartment building. Chet pulled an inch-and-a-half and headed toward the first floor apartment they'd been called to. An embarrassed-looking woman wearing a flowery, water-stained apron met him at the door.

"It's out already," she said. "I'm so sorry to have bothered you."

"Not a problem, ma'am, that's what we're here for," Kelly responded, laying down the still-uncharged line. "Do you mind if I come in and check to make sure it's all out, Mrs. – ?"

"Jacobsen. Marie Jacobsen. Sure, of course, come on in," she said, nodding. Chet signaled Captain Stanley as she pushed the door open wider and the smell of burnt onions drifted out. "I was frying up some liver and onions, and talking to my sister on the kitchen extension. She needed a phone number for one of our cousins, so I put the phone down and went to the bedroom to get it." She led Kelly into the apartment and through a neat living room to the still-smoky kitchen. "I picked up the extension there to give her the number and we just kept talking. I _completely_ forgot I was cooking until she said something about 'that crackling sound.' I ran in here, found the food burning, grabbed up the phone and said – ."

"'Sue, I have to go, my whole kitchen's on fire,'" came a teasing female voice from the dining room table. "So, I called y'all and came on over." At Chet's raised eyebrow, she added, "I live just down the street."

"My sister," the first woman said unnecessarily. Kelly nodded politely to Sue and stepped around Marie so he could check the kitchen.

The sink was half-full of soapy water, suggesting Marie had been washing dishes before Sue called. A still-warm skillet with the charred remains of a meal rested in the water, an oversized oven mitt stuck to the partially melted handle. "Ma'am, did you burn yourself at all?" Chet asked indicating the handle.

"Oh, no, I'm fine. See?" she said, holding up her hands and arms for his inspection. _Lucky lady_, he thought, giving her a nod. He continued his examination of the stove itself and felt along the walls for any possible heat, finding nothing amiss. Satisfied, he pulled his HT out to report to Cap, smiling reassuringly at the two women as he did.

"Engine 51, HT 51. Cap, fire's out but we could use an exhaust fan in here to get rid of the rest of the smoke."

"10-4, Kelly."

Fifteen minutes later, the engine pulled out and headed back to the station.

=+++= / =++++

That afternoon, having finished his assigned chores, Stoker sat in the day room with the package from Patty. Opening it, he found a partial list of items for sale at the charity fundraisers next month. The items donated ranged from original watercolors to weekend getaways, from antiques to modern art. There had been some attempt to categorize and price the items, based on the donor's information, but he thought it would almost be better to start over. _I'll work on that later._ He looked through the list carefully, making notations about starting and minimum bids. A few items he tagged for further research.

There was also a note from Patty about scheduling a fire inspection for the Exhibit Hall. He'd pass that information onto Cap.

Mike called the university library and asked to speak to Patty. "I got your package. Can you look up some information for me?"

"Sure thing, specialist," she said. He could almost see her smile through the phone as she said it. "What lots?"

"Lots 205, 206, 144, 87 and, uh, one more, oh, 32."

"Oh, the Native American items, right?"

"Yup." Mike had books at home which ought to cover most of the art and antiques. "Oh, and can you get me some more info on Larissa Handel and Randall Bearguide? They look to be local so it might help with the promotions."

"I'll check the periodicals and see what I can find."

"Thanks much," he replied and ended the call. He turned and saw Johnny at the refrigerator, milk carton in hand, listening.

"Hey, don't mean to pry or nothin' but, uh, did you say Bearguide?" asked Johnny.

"Yeah, Randall Bearguide. He's some kind of an up-and-coming artisan, I think."

Johnny looked thoughtful and then flashed that crooked grin of his. "Yeah, I guess he is now. Rand's also my cousin."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_[Author's Note: I wrote key sections of this chapter before engaging in concerted research. When you see it in your head, you write it down without questioning the muse too closely, eh? As a result, some of the Native American customs I have created here are just that – creations of my own imagination. I have included some Lakota dialogue and phrases that I've tried to cobble together – that is one cool language, by the way – but I've not adopted (or should that be co-opted?) the culture as a whole. It's probably better to just pretend along with me that Johnny's tribal origins are nonspecific. Or, if you want, you can take into consideration that the policies of the U.S. government during much of the 20th Century served to erode and disrupt the culture of Native American peoples, which likely also altered tribal customs. No disrespect is intended.]_

* * *

=+++= / +====

(c. 1955-1964)

Roderick Gage stood tall before his father and the other elders of the tribe. It did not surprise him that he and his young family were being encouraged to participate in the newest program rolled out by the BIA. He had, after all, married a white woman. And although she had embraced tribal ways and had borne him a fine son, she was _still_ a white woman. Some on the reservation made it a point to never let her forget it.

"Will you accept this challenge, son, and go?" his father asked intently.

Roderick looked at him levelly. Even now, seven years after he had married Annie, he did not know what his father's heart was on the situation. True, there was no overt hostility between them. But the once open and robust father-son relationship had become guarded, the older man persistently pushing his son to do something more, to do something bigger, to think more broadly.

Roderick couldn't understand why he was being pushed away but he wasn't going to beg to stay. "Yes, Father, we will go," he said without a trace of emotion, adding to himself, _but we will be back_. He caught his father's eyes, lifting his head defiantly as he did, then turned and left, knowing his father had heard the words as clearly as if he had shouted.

=+++= / ++===

Seven others from the reservation opted to go with the Gages to Los Angeles, one of the cities in the Urban Indian Relocation Program, where they were promised vocational training and other relocation assistance. Roderick's sister Rosa and her young son Randall were among the relocatees. Rosa had been widowed the previous winter when her husband had driven himself into a tree on the way home from a bar. When they arrived in the city, Rosa and Rand stayed with the Gages, and soon the extended family occupied two sides of a comfortable duplex. The others – another young couple and three single men – found separate lodgings not far away.

The programs of Chief William H. Parker of the Los Angeles Police Department had a profound, if indirect, impact on the Gages. The LAPD's new efforts to keep the public informed of the Department's activities often took the form of community meetings. After attending one such meeting, Roderick realized how many other native peoples had been housed in the neighborhood by the Bureau of Indian Affairs – Indians from Montana, South Dakota, Oklahoma, Texas, even Florida. He began to meet informally with the leading men from the other tribes, seeking out common ground with them, working on solutions to common problems, building strong relationships with other tribes and peoples.

Three years passed.

Through hard work, Roderick had attained success in his chosen occupation. He was active in the Native American community, his natural leadership talents growing. The boys, John and Randall, often went to meetings with him, Roderick bidding them to listen and to learn. They, too, flourished under his guidance and fatherly attention.

When the phone call came from the reservation, both Roderick and Rosa flew home immediately, racing to beat death to their ill father. Annie and the children followed by bus and found the iron spirit still clinging to a weakened body when they arrived. The family assembled at the old man's request a day later.

He addressed each of his daughters gently before turning to a stoic Roderick. "Son, we must learn to walk in two worlds or we will die when this one ends. That is why I sent you – to learn this other way, to bring it back, and to teach it to others. There was no shame, only pride and love," the old man said. He gripped his son's hand and placed it over his own heart.

"Father – ," Roderick began but was shushed gently.

"My place is now yours, son," the old man said firmly then sighed, rich brown eyes closing for what would be the last time. A sudden understanding of the past decade flooded through Roderick as he could now see how his father had been training him for this moment all along, could now see his love had never left him, could now see the task before him clearly.

Standing with his cousins, ten-year-old John Gage did not understand why such a simple statement would cause the elders gathered there to look so agitated … or his father to look both shaken and at peace.

=+++= / +++==

The drums seemed endless: continuing and repeating variations of the rhythm relentlessly, rising and falling inexorably like waves on the ocean, on and on without ceasing or faltering. The beat made John's thin body throb and shake at its core. His mother had told him the thunder of the drums would carry away his departed grandfather's spirit. The lure of the drums was so powerful to the young boy he wondered if his own spirit could be called away by them as well. Finally, a new sound rose above the drums, anchoring him in the here and now, like a spear through the heart. It was his father's voice, wailing for his father. John listened to his father grieving until he fell asleep, tears sliding down his own face, drums echoing in his head.

Later that night, after the drums had ceased, when dawn was still some time away, a _siyotanka_ [Lakota flute] could be heard. Sadness, loneliness, and grief resonated through the haunting melody. The melancholy sound called John from sleep, both soothing him and sending repeated shivers down his spine. He wanted to weep and to sing at the same time. "Momma," he finally whispered, "what is that sound?"

He could hear both tears and relief in her voice as she answered: "The sound of your father's broken heart sewing itself together again."

=+++= / ++++=

Rosa and her son had returned to Los Angeles shortly after the funeral, but the rest of the Gages remained on the reservation. She'd taken her maiden name back, for reasons she kept to herself, but her son continued to be called by her dead husband's name, Bearguide. Despite his relative youth, Roderick took a place on the council, in accordance with his father's last wishes, and worked hard to impart what he had learned about the white man's world during those three fruitful years in Los Angeles.

When John was older, his father talked to him forthrightly about returning to California. "Son, we must learn to walk in two worlds or we will die when this one ends," he began.

=+++= / +++++

The sky was flat and unbecoming when sixteen-year-old John Roderick Gage stepped off the bus in Los Angeles. The overabundance of concrete and asphalt made him feel both disconnected from this world and trapped in it. He had watched the scenery change over the past twenty hours, knowing his new home would look – and be – very different from life on the reservation with his parents. Now, glancing about him, everything seemed to be composed of shades of gray and brown – the industrial-style concrete buildings wearing faded blue and tan paint, the dull steel girders of the canopy shading wooden benches aged to soft silver, the rust-tinged chain link fencing surrounding the hot, dark asphalt of the parking lot, the silver-gray Super 7 Greyhounds idling there ….

His eyes ached to see something green and living. Even the plants next to the bus station – marigolds by the look of them – were dry, tired, and dusty.

"Johnny!"

A melodic voice called out to him and he turned to see a brightly-garbed woman waving to him from the edge of the canopy's shade. He smiled and stepped toward her, slinging his only bag over his shoulder. Although her hair was different than he remembered, her familiar features retained the stamp of humor he had loved as a child. "Aunt Rosa!" he exclaimed and was promptly pulled into a hug. His cousin Rand was standing sullenly beside his mother.

"_Hau, misúnka nah mato_," Johnny greeted him warmly in Lakota, preparing to hug him as well.

"Hello, Cousin John," Rand replied in stiff English, stepping out of an embrace and extending his hand politely instead. Bewildered and a little hurt, John shook Rand's hand, eyebrows rising at the amount of pressure the other boy applied in the grasp.

Rosa Gage still lived in the same duplex she and her son had shared with her brother's family when they had first come to California. Now, however, she owned the house and rented out the other half. When Roderick had written about his plans for Johnny, Rosa decided to put her nephew in the other half of the duplex. Her tenants were planning to move out when the lease was up anyway and it would have been a little cramped for the three of them, especially since the boys would have to share the small bedroom her son Randall occupied. It would also give John a chance to be independent but not alone. After all, they would be right next door and they were his family. It felt like the right decision.

When John arrived two months ahead of schedule, however, Rosa had to rethink things. Her tenants had another month until their lease was up. Fourteen-year-old Rand had flatly refused to share his too-small room with a half-breed, cousin or no. So she made up a pallet in a corner of the living room she'd screened off for John. It wasn't ideal, but since it was temporary, Johnny didn't seem to mind.

=+++= / =++++

After a week or so, Rosa noticed Johnny moving stiffly around the house one morning. She put it down to his not sleeping on a proper bed and made a mental note to add a few more blankets and pillows to the pallet. He was such a skinny young man he didn't really have any padding on his bones. _Not like I do, that is_, she thought to herself with good humor, patting her ample hips. When she'd brought the extra bedding over to him that night, he'd looked up in gratitude, his crooked grin flashing across the solemn face he'd worn all day. She could tell her _tamaheća tons'ka _[skinny nephew]wasn't one to ask for help. _So much like his father_, she thought, tousling his dark hair, surprised to see how long it was again already. _Grows like a weed, just like yours, mit'íblo_ [my older brother].

Her dear brother was on her mind the whole next day and Rosa couldn't help but reminisce more than usual about growing up with Roderick and their younger sisters that night during supper. John had been a little homesick and took comfort in the hearing and the telling of stories about his father, and things they had done together on the reservation. Rand had said little during the meal and shut himself away in his room abruptly after Johnny started talking about crafting a _siyotanka_ with his father about a year before.

That night, Rand waited in the dark bedroom until he was sure his mother was asleep, allowing more time than usual for the transition. She worked hard so it typically didn't take long for her to fall into a sleep deep enough for him to sneak out of the house. His dear Cousin Johnny, however, was apparently a restless sleeper and had thwarted his plans to meet up with the guys several times since he'd, uh, pitched his tipi in the living room. The other guys were pushing Rand to do something about it since Johnny was cutting into their fun. _Teach him a lesson_, they'd urged viciously, _he's nothing but a half-wit half-breed fresh from the rez_. Now, he opened the door carefully, angry eyes seeking out the sleeping form of his cousin across the living room. _Half-breed reservation trash_, he thought as he stole across the room. _I'll teach you a thing or two about life in the big city!_

Curled up on his left side, facing the wall, John had heard the door open behind him but kept his breathing even and deep, mimicking sleep. If he didn't respond, maybe Rand would just leave him alone tonight. He didn't know why his younger cousin seemed to dislike him so much these days. But things had certainly changed from when they were little kids trailing after his father. They had been close once but now Rand seemed to side with the rougher give-the-new-kid-a-hard-time crowd in the neighborhood. He'd become a bully, or at least ran with bullies, as Johnny had been made painfully aware a few days ago when a group of them had 'welcomed' him to the neighborhood.

He was pretty sure Rand was about to continue that 'welcome' now. John knew the signs. Something had snapped in the boy during their reminiscing over supper. Being a 'half-breed' made Johnny a target for both the 'red skins' and the 'pale faces', so he was familiar – all too familiar – with bullies and being bullied. With his father's help, he'd learned to ignore bullies, to walk away when he could, to control his anger when he couldn't, to take a punch, and –

A fist slammed into his back, causing him to gasp. Rand grabbed Johnny's long hair and pulled his head back sharply. "Shut up, you stupid half-breed!" he hissed in John's ear, jerking the silky dark hair again for emphasis. He drew back his right arm to deliver another blow. John's right arm shot up, trapping Rand's left hand against his own scalp; John then rolled backwards into Rand's body, deflecting his cousin's right fist with a swinging elbow. The move startled Rand; he released Johnny's hair and tottered backwards. Johnny reached out to grab his cousin's fist to keep him from falling over backward completely. It didn't work exactly as intended but did keep Rand from cracking his head on the low table behind him.

"You okay?" Johnny said quickly, releasing Rand's fist from his own hand.

The pain and humiliation of landing unceremoniously on his butt stoked Rand's anger and resentment toward his cousin. Grunting, he threw himself forward, determined to put dear Cousin Johnny in his place, to break him, to punish him for everything, _everything_ that had happened.

The two boys – one slender, the other stocky – began to wrestle in earnest. Johnny was the older, taller, and somewhat stronger of the two but Rand outweighed him and seemed intent on hurting him. John just wanted to get through the fight in one piece. Rand tried to keep his cousin pinned to the floor, punching him in the gut or the ribs whenever the opportunity presented itself. Johnny kept scooting himself around, attempting to break Rand's hold and get to his feet.

"Whatsa matter, _cousin_? Didn't your _daddy_ teach you how to _fight_?" Rand sneered as he started to gain the advantage. He had managed to straddle Johnny now, letting his weight restrict his cousin's breathing, while trying to pummel him with his fists. "Seems like he taught _you_ everything else."

The older boy was able to block or deflect many of the blows but not all. Even when Rand began to land more solid hits from the dominant position he was in, Johnny didn't panic. _Panic and breathlessness are not good partners_, he remembered his father telling him.

All at once, John bucked his hips upward, unseating Rand enough that Rand pitched forward and to his left, hands slapping the floor to an attempt to stay upright. Johnny quickly pulled Rand's arm and head down toward his own chest, then arched his back and hips upward and to _his_ right, sending Rand over his shoulder, rolling with him to come out on top. Instead of trying to keep Rand down, however, Johnny jumped up to a standing defensive posture and waited for Rand's next move. His cousin scrambled to his own feet, a little wild-eyed from being thrown so quickly but still angry and still full of fight.

When Rand rushed at him wildly, Johnny sidestepped, hooking his opponent's arm firmly enough to keep him from running face-first into the wall but releasing him quickly enough that Rand's own momentum caused him to spin and smack into the wall, backside first. Several of the pictures on the wall rattled off their nails from the force of the impact, the dark gray carpeting cushioning their fall. Pushing himself from the wall, Rand moved in more cautiously than before, trying to grab both of John's slightly outspread arms at the same time, hoping to pull him into a bear hug and squeeze the breath and the life out of him.

When Rand stepped away from the wall and spread his arms wide, Johnny recognized the opportunity and took it. The younger boy, on the other hand, never saw it coming. The savage blow to the solar plexus stunned him, and he stumbled back into the wall, sliding down it – dazed, hurting, and struggling to breathe.

"My _father_ didn't teach me how to fight, _cousin_, he taught me how to _end_ a fight," Johnny panted, heart aching for his father, eyes flashing angrily.

Rand's dark eyes looked up at him and John glimpsed a much deeper agony than the physical. He sighed, that flash of anger and grief slipping away with the adrenaline. Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth a few times to regain control of himself, John came closer and squatted down beside his cousin. "_Ćaηzeca tako da, misúnka nah mato_? [Why are you angry, my little brother bear?]," he said gently in Lakota, using his old pet name for Rand again.

"_Toka da iyaya he? Wakokpa, mic'iyé!_ [Why did you leave? I was so scared, my older brother!]" Rand cried out. John pulled him close and held him, rubbing his back and shoulders the same way his own father had done when he was upset. And soon the story poured out of Rand, a broken mixture of English, Lakota and tears telling a tale of misery, helplessness, and unspoken grief.

* * *

_[One more note about my usage (abusage?) of Lakota. Originally, I thought it would be cool for Johnny and Rand to refer to each other as brothers even though they are, in actuality, merely cousins. It was intended to demonstrate the closeness of their relationship as kids. When I started digging into Lakota kinship terms a bit more, I discovered the terms for 'brother' or 'sister' could be applied to one's cousins as well, just as 'father' and 'mother' could be used to refer to individuals other than one's biological parents. So, I guess it wouldn't be unusual for cousins to refer to each other as brothers, but I suspect it would still be an indication of their closeness. Also, the language has a gender component, based on the gender of the speaker, which explains why two different words for 'older brother' were used in this chapter._

_Update: One of the reviews indicated Lakota kinship is more involved than I thought which does not surprise me in the least. If I understand it correctly, one's father's brother's children would be brothers/sisters just as one's mother's sister's children would be. However, one's father's sister's children and one's mother's brother's children would be cousins. Which means Rand and Johnny would be considered cousins, not brothers. All of which takes me back to the original idea: Referring to each other as brothers when they are merely cousins could be an indication of the closeness of their relationship as kids. Or, the author's confusion.]_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

=+++= / +====

(25 July)

"Why don't you go back where you came from, _half-breed!_" Contempt dripped from every booming syllable that rolled like thunder across the parking lot behind Station 51.

More than halfway to his Rover with his duffel, John stopped, surprise rippling over his body. _News travels fast these days_, he thought_._ He turned coolly to face the man he knew he'd find. "Think you're big enough to make me, _red man?_" he challenged loudly in return, pulling off his outer shirt with crisp decisive movements and tossing it to the ground with his bag. He took two quick steps forward, dropping into a defensive crouch, defining the arena with an expressive wave of his long arms.

"Oh, yeah, I'm big enough," the other man growled, mirroring Johnny's stance and circling closer. He accepted the boundaries with his own fluid arm gesture. Most of the departing A Shift had come out of the station, drawn by the yelled insults that had shattered the morning calm. The stranger, dark hair bound into long braids, was clearly a Native American; he was almost as tall as Johnny but outweighed him by forty well-muscled pounds. At least. And, he looked angry. Johnny waved his friends back then turned his full attention to his opponent, eyes narrowing, face hardening, body tensing.

The two men feinted with heads and hands in an attempt to throw the other off. Then they both charged, staying low, and letting forth almost identical guttural cries. Just before they clashed, Johnny and the other man straightened, hooked the other's suddenly bent right arm through his own and began to swing around each other wildly. Johnny's yips provided a counterpoint to the deep vocalizations of the other man as they continued to circle, changing direction as they smoothly switched arms, free arms waving high then low, steps shuffling then suddenly light. After nearly a full minute, they unhooked arms one last time and grinned at one another.

"_Misúnka nah mato!_ It's great to see you!" Johnny exclaimed, laughing as he was pulled into a huge Bearguide hug.

"You, too, Johnny," Rand replied, ruffling Johnny's not-quite-regulation-length hair before releasing him.

"Guys, come meet my cousin Rand!" Johnny shouted to his now-amused shiftmates.

=+++= / ++===

(31 July)

_Engine 51 … kitchen fire … time out 2137_

Chairs scraped back and the engine crew left the darkened room to head out on the call. The television continued to send splashes of Technicolor across the rapt faces of the two popcorn-eating paramedics. They barely noticed the massive engine revving up or Stoker easing Big Red out of the bay and into the night, lights flashing, sirens howling.

"Is it my imagination or are we getting a lot of kitchen fires these days?" Kelly shouted to Lopez over the sirens once they were on the way to the scene. Their flashing lights dribbled crimson onto the engine that the passing street lights tried to bleach away, the recurring splashes creating wild-eyed, scarlet-faced apparitions out of the expectant firemen in the rear seats.

"It seems that's all we respond to anymore, _amigo_," Marco agreed.

"I wonder if there's a point to it all," Chet yelled back.

"I wouldn't be the one to ask, Chet," he replied, shrugging.

"Heads up, fellas, looks like we've got a live one," Cap called back to them as the engine pulled into the cul-de-sac. A ragged column of smoke rose from the back corner of a substantial two-story house. "L.A., Engine 51 on scene. Marco, Chet, grab a pair of inch-and-a-halfs. Mike, charge 'em and pull a supply line pronto."

Calls of "right, Cap" and "got it, Cap" were tossed back to Stanley as he strode toward the half-open front door, intent on gathering more information. "Fire department!" Hank called as he stepped inside. A pot-bellied man with a beer can in his hand appeared in one of the doorways. In the background, Hank could hear the laugh track from a television show: 'I'm home, I'm home, Archie.' 'Are you sure Edith?'

"My dingbat wife set fire to her camp kitchen," the man said. "It's out back," he added, gesturing vaguely with the can of beer before turning to go back to his television show.

"Sir, if there's a fire you need to get out of the house," Hank urged, reaching out to guide him to the front door.

"Why? The house ain't on fire, just that kitchen. Geez, whaddya think I am, stupid?" With that, he went back into the den and firmly shut the door in Stanley's surprised face. _Why would I think that?,_ the captain asked himself, rolling his eyes.

"Man says the fire's out back, guys," the captain told his lineman as they dragged the hoses across the lawn. "Let's get to – ." He darted ahead of the others when he heard a woman calling for help.

A large cast-iron pit grill, perhaps four or five feet in diameter, sat dangerously close to the back wall of the house, an unidentifiable charred mass smoking heavily in its belly. Heavy-duty steel wheels at the corners rested on twin tracks set into the concrete suggesting the apparatus could be pulled to the middle of the patio when in use then pushed back out of the way for storage. Two large vats of cooking oil suitable for deep-frying stood beside the fiery grill, an acrid blue smoke rolling from the surface. Heat from the fire in the pit had ignited a pair of macramé plant hangers attached to the green-and-white canvas awning with a soft whoosh-whoosh. Soon the ferns in the planters were burning hellishly, swaying in the breeze.

A middle-aged woman, with fine light-colored hair falling out of what was once a tidy bun and into a face tight with frustration, was standing on the far side of the grill when Hank turned the corner. She'd been using the garden hose in her hand to wet the area down and keep the fire from spreading, if the glistening concrete and grass were any indication. When the flames quickly crawled up the planters and ignited the awning itself, however, she had panicked and yelled for help. The awning was now burning briskly in the light breeze, threatening the house itself. In desperation, she'd begun to spray water wildly toward the flames mere seconds after Hank turned the corner and took in the situation.

"Stop! Don't – ," yelled Captain Stanley futilely as the stream of water hit the hot grease, flashing to steam immediately. Water, steam and burning grease flew in all directions; fortunately for the woman, most of it headed away from her. The hot mixture splashed onto the large thick-paned window behind the vats, cracking it spectacularly.

"L.A., Engine 51. We have a working fire here, continue full assignment this location, request squad," Hank said as he made his way to the woman who had scrambled back in surprise and fear. "Easy, now, ma'am, easy, we've got it," he murmured to her, easing her into a wrought-iron patio chair away from the fire as Marco and Chet came around the corner. Cap nodded at them, gesturing Kelly toward the house and Lopez to him. Chet immediately directed a stream of water toward the darkening, smoking siding on the house as Marco stepped toward Cap.

"I didn't know it would – ," the woman was saying weakly, waving her hand at the remains of the deep-fryers. "I didn't mean to – ," she started then stopped again.

"It's alright, ma'am. We've got it now," Hank said soothingly to her before turning to Marco. "Lopez, go tell that idi – , uh, man his house _is_ on fire and get him out. Don't take no for an answer," he added, giving Marco the heads-up he might have some resistance. "If Stoker's got the supply line set, have him bring the first aid kit, and a burn pack."

"'kay, Cap," Marco replied and, after taking in a deep breath, darted through the patio doors in the center of the house and into the now-smoky interior.

=+++= / +++==

"Stoker?"

"Yeah, Gage?"

"Whatcha doing down there?"

"Checking the dichondra for hot spots?"

"Any luck with that?"

"How ya definin' luck there, Johnny?"

"Good point. Ready to get up now?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Well, I can leave you here till Cap comes by looking for his engineer…."

"Okay, okay, I'll get up." Mike shifted his hands and raised his body out of the flower bed in a classic push-up then froze as two large booted feet appeared beside him. _Just let the earth swallow me up now_, he thought and slowly sank back down into the flower bed he'd just left, closing his eyes again_._

"Uh, Michael?"

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Whatcha doing down there, pally?"

"Uh, push-ups?"

=+++= / ++++=

(1 August)

Mike Stoker prided himself on his self-control but he could feel his resolve weakening as he sat on the couch next to Patty.

Fortified by a cup of strong coffee and a scrambled egg and radicchio sandwich, he'd come over to Patty's house with the best of intentions after his shift ended. The drive over, with his radio up and windows down, had revived him and he began to look forward to spending a sunny California morning with her.

"Hey, Mike, glad you made it," Patty said when she opened the door at his brisk knock. She gave him a quick hug, surreptitiously breathing in the faint smell of smoke that lingered on his skin, before leading him into the house's great room. Mike couldn't help letting out a low whistle of appreciation. "Like it?" she asked with a chuckle at his expression.

Heavy Spanish-style beams spanned the high ceiling, lightweight cross-bracing patterning the smooth white expanse. Wood-filigree and glass doors enclosed inset-arch bookshelves while black wrought iron fixtures graced the walls at regular intervals. A wide-plank hardwood floor gleamed with care. The large area rug in deep reds and blues was centered in front of a stone fireplace, edged by comfortable-looking chairs and matching red leather sofas. That part of the room flowed into a sun-drenched breakfast nook and a generous kitchen, French-style doors leading out to a stone patio.

"Wow," he said, drawing another chuckle from Patty.

"Have you had breakfast? I can whip up something if you'd like," she offered leading him to the breakfast nook where her books and papers were spread out.

"I'm good, thanks," he replied, taking the seat she indicated. She poured two cups of decaf coffee and handed him one before sitting down beside him. "What all do we have here?" he asked after a sip of the weak brew. _Maybe I'll offer to make the next pot_, he thought.

"Okay, I've found most of the information you wanted on that last batch of items …," she began, outlining what she'd found out about some of the more obscure items he would be handling at the gala event less than three weeks away. After about forty-five minutes of sitting on the hard kitchen chair in basically the same position, Mike realized his back muscles were beginning to cramp, probably from what he'd done at that crazy kitchen fire. He shifted, brushing against Patty's shoulder as he did, and tried to stretch his back.

"So each whimsy is unique and that's what gives it more – hey, are you hurt?" Patty asked, halting her explanation when a grimace crossed his face.

"Just stiffened up a bit, I'll be fine," he replied, standing and gingerly twisting his torso to relieve the stiffness. He'd used one heat pack Gage had given him on the way over, saving the other for when he went home.

"Well, these chairs are not exactly built for long-term comfort, either," she admitted, standing up with him. "That's why Daddy and I usually eat at the island in the kitchen. If you're really okay, we can move over here – it's definitely more comfortable – and finish this bit, then take a real break."

"Sounds like a plan," Mike said, following her to the leather sofa she'd pointed to. He sat down on the broad seat and Patty planted herself next to him, close enough that he could look over her shoulder and see the pictures she was pointing out to him in the books she'd brought from her library. Stoker smiled when he noticed a few of the books were marked "Non-Circulating"; she'd clearly been using her librarian's prerogative again.

When Patty started talking about the Native American items, Mike leaned forward to study the pictures more closely, placing his arm behind him to counteract how deeply he'd sunk into the comfortable couch. He had talked with Johnny's cousin Rand over breakfast last week about how Native American flutes were made and played, and was eager to see what Rand had only described in words and Johnny-esque hand motions. Stoker's idea of a flute was a silvery tube with buttons on it sticking out of the side of his sister's mouth, not what Rand had described as a 'double-chambered wooden cylinder with finger holes and a reversible block lashed to the body by leather thongs.' Or something like that.

He was close enough to Patty now to catch the slightest hint of her perfume when the phone rang.

Patty bounced up and over to the kitchen to answer it. Mike leaned back and let his eyes close, hearing her voice but not really absorbing the meaning of her words. It was so warm and peaceful here. He slouched more deeply into the red leather couch, resting his tender back. _Stupid skunk_, he thought. The couch felt good, cradling his tired body, much better than the unpadded kitchen chair. Several minutes later, Patty sat back down beside him, her weight on the cushion rousing him. He blinked his eyes several times as he pulled himself upright to examine the book in her hands again, catching that same hint of her slightly spicy perfume. _Hmmm, nice._

With Patty back beside him on the couch, Stoker discovered it was hard to concentrate now. Soon, he found himself listening to the cadence of her voice again but being completely oblivious as to the content. _She's got a great voice_, he thought distractedly. _I could listen to her talk forever._

When her voice rose in excitement, Mike leaned closer, trying to follow Patty's fingers with his eyes so that it looked like he was paying close attention to her every word and gesture, taking in every scrap of information she was trying to impart to him. Soon, however, his eyes bounced up from the page and he found himself studying her profile, his blue eyes starting at her hairline, tracing the curve of her forehead and then sliding down her nose and across her lips, noting her cute ears in passing, then trailing down her chin and throat to her clavicle, his eyelashes sweeping downward as he did. He started to lean toward her just a bit – .

Then snapped his eyes back open and sat up straighter. _This is neither the time nor the place for that, Stoker_, he admonished himself. _Pull it together_. He sucked in extra oxygen to clear his head, shifting forward on the couch.

"Gonna make it, specialist?" Patty asked.

"Uh-huh," he said, not trusting his tongue to form appropriate words at this point, but trying to keep his wide-open eyes steadily on her so she wouldn't figure out what his problem was. Honestly, he wasn't sure he could hold out much longer, not while they sat on this oh-so-inviting couch which looked plenty long enough for his six-foot-four-inch frame and plenty wide enough to roll around on. He had never liked a narrow bed; he hated narrow couches.

The next ten minutes were agony for Mike as he fought his body's urges. _Patty deserves to be appreciated, buddy, not inconvenienced by you, … which is exactly what's going to happen if you can't keep your head on straight…strength of character, my toenails …._

Since he was balancing on the forward part of the cushion now, he'd turned to face her more directly, one knee touching hers lightly. Then he found himself staring at her lips as she talked, trying to figure out what she might be telling him, when she paused and bit her lip. He watched her take a drink of water, saw her throat contract as she swallowed, observed her tongue lick the last few drops of moisture from her pink parted lips. "Look at this, Mike," she said, tapping the page. "Isn't it marvelous?"

Shamefacedly, Stoker shifted his gaze to the book in her hands, tilting his head and leaning toward her as he did, inciting a slight wave of dizziness. "Wow," he said dazedly when he looked at the brilliant stained-glass mosaic swimming before his eyes, his breath whispering hotly across her cheek. " 's so pretty," he murmured indistinctly, his remark sending another warm feathery sensation through her body.

Patty turned her head slowly, heart beating rapidly. His face was only inches away from hers and she suddenly wanted to trace his lips with her own. His languid blue eyes gazed into her green ones intently. "Michael?" she asked breathlessly, wondering if he was finally, _finally_ going to – .

"Sorry, lady green eyes," he slurred piteously, blinking his eyes ever more slowly. "Can't fight it any longer …." And then, as his exhausted body's need for sleep overcame his resolve to stay awake, Mike tumbled slowly forward, startling her into action.

"Whoa, big guy," she said softly, managing to change the direction of his tumble before he ended up on the floor by levering him back into the couch with her body. Patty unlaced his shoes and slipped them off, setting them neatly by the couch, and, in a practiced motion, swung his legs up and around so his whole body was supported by the couch. She tugged him gently into a better position; he sighed as his body settled more deeply into the cushions. A few minutes later, she placed a pillow from her newly-made bed under his head, aware of the tantalizing softness of his short brown hair, and covered him with a freshly-laundered cotton blanket, honestly amazed at how completely he had yielded to sleep. It must have been a really rough shift.

_Specialist,_ she thought with a tender smile, barely resisting the urge to let her fingers dribble through his hair, down his cheek, across his strong jaw, _what am I gonna do with you?_

=+++= / +++++

The smell of pineapples and the clink of ice in a nearby glass tumbler rapped gently on the door of his subconscious, the unfamiliar sensory inputs calling his mind from the cozy mountain cabin it had rented while his body slept. Some part of him suggested knowing where his body was might be a good idea.

He soon realized it was too much effort to open his eyes so he concentrated on what he could gather from his other senses, those not requiring movement. He was laying on his stomach, on a soft surface, face cradled in a cool pillow scented with cedar. _Uhm, thaz nice._ It was quiet, the soothing sound of a fountain chuckling to itself floating in with the light breeze. His right arm dangled off the edge of what Stoker had tentatively identified as a couch, fingers splayed bonelessly across the textile floor covering.

He slowly became aware of an unusual warmth, a delicate kneading of his blanket-covered body. Centered in the small of his back, the touch was light and varied, one moment hesitant, the next determined and vigorous. After a final round of raindrop-weight taps, the soft warmth paused and seemed to settle exactly where his muscles were sorest, gently heating the tender tissues. Relaxing again, Mike decided he didn't really care where his body was and slipped back into sleep, telling the leasing agent for the beach bungalow to send him a bill for the extra palm trees….

=+++= / =++++

"Here, kitty-kitty-kitty," Patty called softly. "Where are you, fella?" She moved into the room quietly, not wanting to disturb her sleeping guest, checking under tables and in the cat's other favorite hiding places. "Hey, Chief! C'mon, don't do this. Here kitty-kitty – ." The phone rang, startling her, and she hurried to the kitchen before it could ring again and wake Mike.

"McConnikee residence, Patty speaking," she said breathlessly. "Hey, Daddy. … No, everything's going fine. … You can't? Oh, that's too bad. I was hoping you could meet my friend Mike. … Really? Daddy, that's great. I'm so proud of you. … Yeah, but it was your idea in the first place. … Now, don't let those big scary firemen rattle you when you give 'em the pitch. You're just as much a fire professional as they are. … Okay, Dad. Tell Uncle Tommy I said hi. Straighten your tie, look 'em in the eye. … Love you too, Dad."

Patty hung up the phone with a proud smile. _My dad is pretty awesome_, she thought before reminding herself of the need to find the cat. "Hey, Chief! Where are you, fella? Are you caught somewhere?" When she reached the couch Stoker was still sprawled on, she heard Chief's purr.

And, there, curled up on Mike's back was the family cat, a beautiful orange and white darling named Chief Tomcat McConnikee.

"Silly cat!" she said. With disdain only a cat could manage, Chief stood up and stretched, then pranced up the man's back, over his head, front paw lightly brushing his forehead, and onto the arm of the couch, where he began his morning bath. Just then, someone rang the doorbell insistently and she hurriedly left the room to answer the door, chuckling as she went. _Hope Mike doesn't mind cats; I think he's just been adopted!_

The random sounds, unusual sensations, and increasingly loud voices of the past few minutes had roused Stoker and he rolled carefully onto his back, eyes still closed. A disconnected jumble of remembered words wandered through his slowly waking brain. _Chief, McConnikee, hey Daddy, too bad, Daddy proud of you, big scary firemen, Dad, Tommy, love you too, chief, silly cat._ When he felt something warm land on his chest, Mike popped his eyes open.

And found himself nose-to-nose with a big orange cat with green eyes.

With a strangled shout, Mike jumped and half-fell, half-slid off the couch and onto the floor with a loud thump. Understandably startled, Chief did much the same, landing with innate feline grace on the back of the couch, and meowing loudly in protest at his displacement.

Mike glared at the cat for a moment then shook his head, amused. He'd been falling in embarrassing ways too much recently – at the scene over a foot-high ceramic skunk, then asleep here on the couch, _really smooth there, Stoker, _and now onto the floor due to a cat. _What's next?_

He started to push himself up off the floor when an authoritative voice rang out. "Hold it right there, mister!" Mike looked up, froze.

And found himself staring up the barrel of a gun and into young, scared-looking eyes.

=+++= / ==+++

(3 August)

"So, we're goin' door-to-door, canvassing the neighborhood for this armed robbery suspect," Pete Malloy explained. "We get to this house and the trainee rings the doorbell a couple of times. A few minutes later, a woman comes to the door to see what we want. Now, the kid's got this loud voice and he's explaining why we're there and all. Well, the lady she keeps trying to shush him and looking over her shoulder like she's worried someone will hear."

"Uh-oh," Johnny said, handing his partner Roy a second cup of coffee. Pete's partner Jim Reed waved off the offer of a refill. While waiting on word about the victim of a brutal beating, the two LAPD officers were telling the two LACoFD paramedics about a run-in they'd had with one of their as-yet-unnamed brothers a few days ago.

"Finally, he just asks her, you know, is there something wrong, thinkin' she's hiding something, or someone's there, I dunno. Now, this kid is as green as shamrocks," Malloy continued. "The lady leans forward and she says, very softly, 'There's someone on the couch who – .' And right at that moment, before she can finish her sentence, there's a loud yell and a couple of thumps." He rapped the table in the staff lounge to demonstrate, startling one of the nurses getting coffee.

"And the cat, don't forget the cat, Pete," Jim put in.

"Right, there was this crazy yowling, too. So the kid hears all this and assumes the worst, right? He pushes past the lady, almost knocking her over, runs inside like a shot before either of us can even blink. I'm close enough to grab her and pull her back up, while Jim here – ."

"I run down the hall and hear the kid shout, 'Hold it right there, mister!'"

"You heard it, I heard it, the neighbors heard it," Pete said dryly. Roy raised an eyebrow and bit into the crunchy cookie Dix had pressed on him earlier. _Better dunk this cookie 'fore I break a tooth. _"Like I said, the kid had a _loud_ voice."

"So, there's this cat on the back of the couch meowin' its head off," Jim continued. "And this rookie has his gun trained on some big guy sprawled on the floor by the couch. The kid looks rattled but the guy is pretty calm. Not moving a muscle, mind you, but calm. He says somethin' like, easy officer easy, I'm a fireman with L.A. County, identification's in my wallet, my name is …." He paused dramatically. "We should make them guess, Pete; they'll never get it in a million years."

"I dunno, maybe they'd figure it out," Malloy said, "if we give 'em some hints."

"Should we?"

"Yeah, why not? After all, they oughta know who they're workin' with, dontya think?"

"You're right, Pete."

Johnny just glared at the pair, while Roy took a different approach, swallowing the second, softer, bite of his cookie. "So, give us a hint already."

"Well, he's tall … brown hair … _quiet_ – ," Malloy said slowly.

"Not Stoker!" Roy exclaimed as Johnny tried not to spew coffee in his surprise.

"Bingo! He says 'my name is Mike Stoker' and so, we take a look and, sure enough, it's Stoker on the floor, tangled in this pink flowered blanket," Pete said with a laugh. "We finally get the rookie to put his gun down and help Mike back up on his feet when the cat – this big orange and white tom – just goes crazy."

"It was something else, guys," Reed said. "The cat was spitting and hissing and cackling. The hair on my neck was standing up at the sound. That whole cats and witches stuff made a whole lot more sense all of a sudden." Pete rolled his eyes. "What? Pete, didn't you say the cat was demon-possessed?"

"I said it _looked_ like it was demon-possessed."

"And you've seen a lot of demon-possessed cats, have you?"

"About as many as you have, partner. It's just a figure of speech."

"So, if the cat wasn't demon-possessed, what _was_ wrong with it?" Johnny broke in, amused by the banter but eager to hear the rest of the story now. They could get called out at any time.

"What? Oh, well, when the lady crouched down to calm the kitty, she looked through the patio doors and saw what turned out to be our suspect, gun in hand, sneaking through the backyard. She yelled and grabbed the cat. Stoker just grabbed up her _and_ the cat, and got them behind the couch. Mr. Track Star here," Pete said punching his partner lightly in the shoulder, "ran out the back after the guy, I ran out front to cut him off, telling the kid to call for backup."

"Did you get him?" asked Roy, easily picturing Mike getting the girl to safety. The cat? Not so much. _Apparently, it was a package deal._

"Oh, yeah," Reed replied casually. "Malloy's the one who got the drop on him when he tried to cut back to the street."

"But here's the best part," Pete continued, amused by his partner leaving out the other details of the chase. "We've got the guy cuffed and so we walk him back to the patrol car parked in front of the house. Once we've secured him in the back seat, Jim and I go inside, just to let them know everything's okay, right? So, we go inside … and there's, you know, Stoker and the girl." He took a sip of coffee just to draw the story out, eyes twinkling.

"Annnd?" an impatient Johnny prompted, looking from one officer to the other.

"Lip-lock," Reed supplied with a grin.

"_Massive_ lip-lock," Pete corrected his partner sternly, causing the other men to burst out laughing and Malloy to grin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

=+++= / +====

(10 August)

"Daddy?"

"Yes, dear?" He continued to dry the breakfast dishes beside the kitchen sink, wondering what he was about to agree to do. Through the wide patio doors, the early morning sun poured its bright yellow light over the table, just as he'd planned.

"Could you drop something off for me? I'm running late and won't have time before work, especially if there's traffic."

"Sure thing, sweetheart. It'll get me out of the house." Truth be told, he didn't want to get out of the house. He preferred to stay here where his memories were strongest. But he knew his girl worried – one of the reasons she moved back in – so he made an effort for her sake. "And I need to run by the office for a few hours anyway." _Might as well do that today, too._

"Great, Dad. This package is for Mike Stoker, at Station 51, in Carson," she said, sliding a large envelope with her trademark green script on it across the island toward him.

"_Station_ 51? Patty, you know how I feel about going to fire stations, especially – ."

"Please, Daddy? It's really important my speciali – that is, Mike, get it _today_," she entreated, her green eyes wide. He looked down at his daughter's pleading expression, saw her mother's beautiful eyes looking back up at him, and knew he didn't have a chance. Fighting it would just make him look silly. _You're licked, Henry Malone, before you've even started._

"Mike Stoker. Station 51. Yes, ma'am," Henry said, an indulgent smile crossing his face as his daughter laughed at his capitulation and reached up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying toward the door. _Hmm, wonder who this 'special Mike' character is? I've heard Patty mention the name before but I don't think I've met him._

=+++= / ++===

Later that morning, Henry pulled into the parking lot at Station 51 and carefully extricated himself from his petite sister-in-law's tiny red two-seater. He'd be glad when his own vehicle was functional again. Package in hand, he went to the front of the building where the public entrance was and stepped inside. As always, he was a little awestruck by the fire equipment, poised to rush forward into danger and save the day, chrome gleaming, reds shining, lights flashing, sirens blaring. In his opinion, the men who continued to do this for a living were amazing. Maybe a little touched in the head, but amazing nonetheless.

Quelling the residual nervousness he so often felt around fire stations, he turned to the office where he could see a tall, lanky man bent over a desk, concentrating intently on the document in front of him. Henry thought the other man looked somewhat familiar but he couldn't quite place him. Over the years, he'd seen a lot of firemen. "Excuse me," Henry said respectfully from the doorway.

The man at the desk looked up, his eyes grew wide, and he shot to his feet, the rolling chair rocketing backwards across the office as he did so to clang noisily into the other desk. "Sir? I'm sorry I didn't hear you come in. I was working on the report for the – ," he said nervously, nearly standing at attention. "How can I – that is, what brings you to the station, sir?" A slightly manic closed-lipped smile appeared on the fire captain's face. From the reaction, Henry knew this was one of his brother's stations. He hid his smile as well as he could, trying to look commanding yet friendly. Explaining never did much good, he had learned.

"At ease, man," Henry said which caused the fire captain to relax, fractionally. "I just needed to drop this off for," he looked down at the package, "Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker."

"I'll see that he gets it immediately, s-sir," the fire captain stammered, wondering where Mike was that exact minute. _Bay? Kitchen? Hose tower? Was he hanging hose with Marco? That sounded right, but what if it wasn't? Where was he?_ As soon as McConnikee left, Hank vowed, he would scour the station until he found Stoker. Then he'd, uh, call McConnikee's office and, and, leave a message, _just a message, don't talk to him, leave a message_, letting him know the package has been delivered as promised.

"This specialist of yours," Henry began casually, still holding the package, "he's been an engineer for how long now?"

"Stoker? Yessir, our engineer. Been here since the station opened." _When did the station open? How long has he been here? Maybe I should pull out Stoker's file and – ._

"Good at his job?"

"Yessir, top-notch. Never seen anyone better. Topped the engineer's exam. Fine man." _Or was it his engineer's training class that he topped out on and he was second on the exam? Perhaps I can just casually look at his – ._

"Family man?"

"No sir, I mean, he's not married, that is, he's currently single. He has family in the area though. Big clan." _Two sisters, a brother, parents, grandparents, three cousins, a gaggle of nieces and nephews, and a great-aunt, who else?_ Hank Stanley thought frantically. _Should I look in the file or – ?_

"Like kids?"

"Mike's great with kids. Helps out with the children's carnival every year. Stays with my kids, they're a handful, but he enjoys it. Brings his family's little ones over if their mothers are busy. Very reliable." _Did he help with the carnival two years ago or was that the time he was sick and had to get Gage to fill in for him?_ _Would that be in the file – ?_

"How many?"

"Sir? I don't – ." Stanley's eyes grew wider, if it was possible, at the gruff tone.

"How many children will this Stoker specialist bring over to your house?"

"How, uh, many? Uh, usually just the three Stoker boys now. He used to bring the little girls over too but I think their mothers take turns watching them now that they are almost neighbors so Mike doesn't have to drive all the way up there to Santa Clarita as often to get them. My kids really like them all, though. Very well-mannered." _Why would McConnikee want to know about Stoker's nieces and nephews? Oh no, oh no – ._

"Three boys and two girls, then?"

"Four girls, sir. Two sets of twins." Sweat was breaking out on Captain Stanley's forehead now. _What if he asks me for their names? I don't know all their names. That's __not__ going to be in his file – ._

"Twins, eh?" Henry said thoughtfully, coming to a decision.

"Yessir, apparently they run in _both_ families." _Oh boy ohboyohb – ._

"Hmmm. Well, I've taken up too much of your time…."

"Oh, no sir, my time is yours. Anything you need, just let me know." The paranoid hamster that was Cap's brain was running itself to death. Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to breathe. Things didn't look too good for the hamster's continued respiratory function either.

"Good man. See that _Specialist_ Stoker gets this package," he said, finally handing it over. Stanley took it like it was made of spun glass and gently laid it on the desk, well away from the edge so it wouldn't fall and well away from his now-cold cup of Stoker-made coffee so nothing, not a thing, could spill on it.

"Absolutely, sir." _First thing, absolutelyfirstthing._

"Glad I can count on you," his eyes flicked to the nametag on the other man's chest, "uh, Stanley. Stay safe today."

"Yessir, thank you sir, have a great day sir," Hank gushed in response as the other man turned to leave.

He watched as McConnikee left the building, keeping the amiable if shell-shocked smile on his face in case the other man looked back. When he had rounded the corner, Captain Stanley snuck over to the big window in his office, very carefully and slowly opening the blinds _just_ enough to allow him to watch the big man's progress across the parking lot. He squeezed into an unfamiliar red car and after a moment drove off, turning toward fire headquarters. Hank waited until the sporty car was about a block away, _definitely gone, not coming back_, then _moved_.

"**STOKER! MY OFFICE, NOW!"** Hank bellowed, the wide open bay amplifying his voice like a megaphone, startling everyone in the station as well as a few birds on the back fence. Mike – high atop the hose tower – nearly lost his footing at the panic-stricken shout, but recovered and responded instantly, sliding down the pole, absorbing the landing with his knees, and then running flat out into the station.

"Cap?" he asked breathlessly. Hank unceremoniously hauled him into the office by his arm and closed the door, leaving everyone else in the station to wonder what was up. Even the birds looked confused as they settled, uneasily it seemed, back on the fence.

=+++= / +++==

Thirty-seven minutes after Mike Stoker entered Hank Stanley's office, Chief McConnikee's secretary hung up the phone with a bemused look on her face. On the notepad in front of her was a very long and a very detailed message from a very nervous captain at 51s. Marissa wasn't sure why the Chief wanted to know all of this information about FF/SP Stoker, but she dutifully typed up the names and ages of his nieces and nephews; the approximate number of times in the past year he had cared for the captain's children (with an offer of more information if required); the number of times he had helped with the annual children's carnival including a brief description of how he had participated (fire truck rides, splash fountain) and an explanation of why he had not been at the carnival two years ago (viral infection); a rundown of the family Stoker had in the Los Angeles County area; a confirmation that he'd never been married; his rank on the engineer's exam, his class rank at the engineers' school, the fire academy, and his high school (firsts across the board), and his grade point average in his two years of junior college; how long he'd been a firefighter, how long an engineer, a recital of his duty stations during that time, and the commendations in his file. And the message that he, Captain Hank, er, that is, Captain Henry Stanley of Station 51, A Shift, had delivered the package into the hands of Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker of Station 51, A Shift, less than two minutes after he, Chief McConnikee, that is, had left the station that morning. As requested. Sir.

Given that Chief McConnikee had been on the other side of the door behind her in a meeting for the past three hours, Marissa was pretty sure Chief was going to want to talk to his younger-by-eight-minutes brother when he got _this_ message.

=+++= / ++++=

Normally, Henry Malone McConnikee was very good about not trading on his twin brother's, uh, influence in the fire department. When his baby girl showed an interest in 'special Mike' the engineer at 51s, however, he found his fatherly instincts overrode, well, pretty much any other considerations. He was sure Tommy – Battalion Chief Thomas Patrick McConnikee, LACoFD, that is – would understand. Especially since it looked like the guy had _seven_ kids by _at least_ three different women, _none_ of whom he was married to currently. Definitely _not_ the right kind of 'special' for his Patty Mack. He'd find a way to keep them apart; Clan McConnikee would help if necessary.

=+++= / +++++

"McConnikee Architecture, Henry speaking."

"Please hold for Battalion Chief McConnikee," Marissa said into the phone, then transferred the call into her boss's office. _Oh, to be a fly on the phone line!,_ she thought, turning back to the monthly reports with a small smile.

"Hello, Henry," the fireman greeted his brother the architect.

"Hi, big brother."

"Understand you've been visiting my fire stations again, Henry."

"Oh?"

"Seems you rattled one of my best captains a mite this morning."

"Really?"

"Sounds like you grilled him about one of the top engineers in the county."

"That so?"

"Henry …," the marginally elder McConnikee said warningly.

"Tommy, all I did was deliver a package for Patty. I talked with the captain for a few minutes and then left. That's it."

"Did you, uh, happen to introduce yourself?" Tom did not sound happy.

"Well, uh, no. But I don't think it would have done any good. This guy was wound pretty tight from the moment he saw me." Henry chuckled at the memory of the fire captain's over-the-top nervousness, including the way he kept looking at the package, hands twitching to take it and get him out of there.

"Can't imagine why," Tom replied dryly. _Trust Henry __not__ to recall that incident with Emily Stanley_. _If __his__ hat had burned up, he'd remember it, alright._ "What about your interest in Specialist Stoker?"

"_I'm_ not the one _interested_ in _that_ guy, Tom," Henry said in a hard voice, no trace of amusement left now.

"Oh-ho! Does my darling niece have a crush on one of my firemen again?" It was Chief McConnikee's turn to be amused at his brother's agitation. He could clearly remember his thirteen-year-old niece blushing furiously one Thanksgiving as she tried to pump her favorite Uncle Tommy for information about one of his shiftmates who'd caught her eye when she'd visited him at the station. These days, he knew, she'd inquire more discretely of his secretary Marissa.

"It's not funny! This guy sounds like bad news, a real scoundrel. I'm not about to let _my_ daughter get involved with someone like that!"

"Stoker? A scoundrel?" Tommy laughed. "You have _got_ to be kidding!"

"What else would you call a guy with seven kids and three ex-wives? A paragon of virtue?" His voice dripped with scorn.

"What are you talking about, bro? Stoker's one of the good guys. And, according to his file, he's never been married."

"Great, just great! So, what, he just knocks 'em up and moves on? What a prince!" his brother growled back.

"Whoa, there, just a minute. I'm sure you've got it wron – ," Chief McConnikee said before a long string of tones sounded in the background, interrupting him.

_Station 51, Station 36, Truck 9, Ladder 127, Battalion 7, … structure fire, MKF Manufacturing … time out 1338._

"Gotta go, Henry," he said abruptly, hanging up the phone and heading out the door to meet up with the men he commanded.

"Stay safe, Paddy Mack," his twin said softly into the already-silent phone, uncomfortably aware of the kind of amazing it took to be a fireman.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

=+++= / +====

(10 August, cont.)

For the men at Station 51, the fire could not have been timed better.

Captain Stanley's paranoia seemed to have dissipated after he'd received a brief 'good job and thanks' message from the battalion chief's office and spent some quality time talking softly to Roy and the canine Henry on the couch. Marco, no longer in fear for his toenails' well-being, had assisted Johnny in updating the log book in the office until Chet called them for lunch. On the way, they'd collected an oblivious Mike who'd been polishing the engine and humming a Sugarloaf tune since they'd finished hanging hoses two hours ago.

Everyone had then eaten heartily of Chet's tangy chicken-and-broccoli casserole and consumed a dish – or two, in Johnny's case – of Joanne DeSoto's famous banana pudding.

Over lunch, they passed around the two dozen or so thank you cards which Joanne had sent in with the dessert that morning. The cards – from the first and fifth grade classes at Chris and Jenny's school – thanked the firefighters for coming to the school, on their day off, for a combination show-and-tell and fire safety demonstration. Most of the cards were marked for Station 51 as a whole but some were addressed to specific firemen, including one to 'the tall man who looks like Abe Lincoln but without a beard.' Everyone had laughed when a smiling Cap pretended not to know who that might possibly be.

As usual, the notes from the school were a mixed bag. Chet received an invitation to a birthday party from a fifth-grader who had admired his moustache and wanted to know how to grow his own. In a card extravagantly decorated with pink and green hearts, one of the first-graders asked Stoker if he would marry her when she got a little older. The same young lady had also written Johnny with a similar request, although his card had yellow and pink hearts. The other note addressed to Johnny had decidedly more mature feminine handwriting, prompting a speculative little smile, and went straight into his wallet. Joanne's private note to Roy had put a saucy smile on his face and had also been hastily pulled out of circulation.

Marco took possession of the three letters in Spanish, chuckling quietly as he read over then translated into English each of the first two. When he perused the third one, he started laughing so hard tears began running down his face.

"Well, Marco, don't keep us in suspense," Cap said finally as everyone stared at the weeping laughing lineman.

"Oh, sure Cap, but it's not … addressed to … all of us. It's actually for … Johnny … and R-Roy," Marco gasped out.

"You don't mind, do you, fellas?"

"Fine by me," Roy said with a shrug. His mouth full of Joanne's pudding, Johnny nodded as well.

"Ooookay." Lopez cleared his throat, snickered, and began reading. "_'Dear fire-medics,'_ –

"Fire-medics? I think I like that," Johnny said through the last of his pudding.

" – '_I really liked meeting you today. I liked your presentation on first-aid and CRP'_ – I'm sure she means CPR, guys."

"Right, easy enough mistake to make."

"'_Do you make a lot of house calls? I wish you would make a house call at my house.'_" Marco coughed, knowing what was next. "_'Then we could go on a double date and eat ice cream in the park. Have you ever gone on a double date?'_" The other men chuckled. "_'I would like to go on a double date with you sometime. You have pretty eyes.'_"

"Hey, Mike, who do you think has the prettiest eyes, Gage or DeSoto?" Chet asked.

Mike pretended to consider it for a moment, glancing from Johnny's brown eyes to Roy's blues and back again a few times, then shook his head. "I'm rather fond of green eyes myself, so I couldn't really say," he said with an amiable shrug.

"Oh? Is that why you've been humming 'Green-Eyed Lady' all morning," Johnny asked with a mischievous grin. "What color eyes does our mutual admirer have again? Does she say?"

"Hey, do you guys want to hear the rest of this letter or not?" Marco broke in, amused on multiple levels. He'd heard Mike humming that tune on and off for _days_ now, and the little girl had hazel eyes.

"Well, I do," declared Roy. _Sounds like Junior's got another female admirer to add to his collection_, he thought with a smile_._

"And so do I," Hank said. "Marco, continue."

"Yes, Cap. _'Are you free on Saturday? I will be home all day._' She's got her address here. _'Sincerely, Maria Hernandez.'_"

"Hey, Gage, looks like you finally got some girl to ask you out," Chet laughed. "You gonna say yes?"

"Very funny, Chet. I'll have you know – ," Johnny began.

"Guys, there's more," Marco broke in, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. By the time he had composed himself, he had their full attention and read the postscripts.

"'_P.S. – My best friend says she will go with us if your friend can't find a date. But you have to buy her an extra dip of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles.'_"

"Hmm, think you're worth an extra dip of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles, Roy?" Johnny said settling back in his chair with a confident grin, arm slung over the back of the seat. Before Roy could respond, Marco shushed them and continued.

"'_P.P.S. – Mr. Roy, you don't have to bring Mr. Johnny if you don't want to. Anna says she won't hold hands with him anyway, because he's so skinny.'_" Now Roy sat back smugly, arms folded over his chest, as Johnny's mouth dropped open. Chet cackled. Mike simply put his head down and laughed into the table.

"Wait, wait," Marco panted desperately, trying to get their attention. "There's _more_."

"More?" Cap gasped between laughs and Marco nodded, eyes brimming with tears again. Past speech now, Cap signaled him to continue.

"'_P.P.P.S. – Now Anna says she will – but it'll cost you a banana split if you want her to kiss him, too.'_"

All the men of Station 51, including Johnny, collapsed in laughter. Henry soon joined in from the couch, howling along with his stationmates.

=+++= / ++===

"Mike, this 'green-eyed lady' of yours…." Johnny said quietly while the two washed the lunch dishes. The other men had dispersed throughout the station, the occasional chuckle drifting through the bay or the dorms as memory tickled one or another man's funny bone.

"Uhm, yeah," Stoker replied, blushing. _I have really got to get a handle on this blushing thing._

"Serious?"

"Yeah, I think it is."

"Recent?"

"We've known each other for about six years but, yeah, this part is, uh, recent."

"Ahh," John said understandingly, realizing this must be the woman Malloy and Reed saw Mike lip-locked with last week. He wiped down Joanne's pudding dish, paused. "Mind if I share some advice Roy once gave me?"

"Shoot."

"If you want to go home to her at the end of the shift, er, whatever, you know what I mean. Anyway, you gotta learn to, uh, put her in a box when you're on the job." With soapy hands, he mimed placing something in a box, locking it, and putting the key in the pocket over his heart, dripping water down his shirt in the process.

"Sounds like something Cap would say," Stoker said with a smile.

"Who'd ya think gave _Roy_ the advice?" A long string of tones interrupted.

_Station 51, Station 36, Truck 9, Ladder 127, Battalion 7, … structure fire, MKF Manufacturing … time out 1338._

From all over the station, the men hustled to their vehicles and mounted up, pulling on turnout gear as they did. As Cap tore off the run sheet, Johnny caught Mike's eye in the engine and again mimed locking something in a box. Mike nodded and tapped his chest twice to indicate he'd stashed the key. Then Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker and Firefighter Paramedic John Roderick Gage turned as one to answer the next call of the day.

=+++= / +++==

"Hey, Lopez!"

"Yeah, Chet?"

"Looks like we are finally responding to something _other_ than a kitchen fire. Great, eh?" Both men braced themselves as the engine rounded the final corner before the scene. "I'm telling you, man, one more of those and I was going to go – no! It can't be! There is just no way!"

"Sorry, _amigo_, but it is," Marco said, chuckling as they pulled up to MKF Manufacturing, a large industrial food processing facility better known as _Mama's Kitchen_.

=+++= / ++++=

Overhaul was well underway and Mike Stoker was walking the hoses to drain them when Tommy McConnikee ambled over to Engine 51. When he realized the chief was standing there, watching him closely, Mike paused, the hose in his gloved hands. "Chief, can I help you with something?" he asked politely. "Cap'n Stanley went in just a few minutes ago to give Kelly a break, but I can get him back if you need him." He almost hoped McConnikee didn't want to talk to Hank; this morning – had it only been this morning? – Cap had been a _little_ freaked out over something. Roy had helped him get over it, but no one wanted Stanley to have a bout of McConnikee-induced paranoia today, too.

"Actually, Stoker, I wanted to talk with you, just briefly, if you don't mind. I know you have work to do," he said, gesturing to the eight hundred or so feet of 51's unpressurized hose scattered on the ground like so much linguini.

"Sure, Chief." Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk to him today – his mother had called just before he'd left for work, Cap had called him into the office, Johnny calling him on his green-eyed lady after lunch, that green-eyed lady's simple 'call me, specialist' note tucked into the package Cap had given him. _Maybe I can call her when – no, no, no, back in the box with you, sweetie._

Hesitating, McConnikee ducked his head, pulling at one ear and rubbing the back of his neck, then met Mike's eyes and plunged ahead. "I don't normally like to ask questions of this sort of the men under my command and you are under no obligation to answer. I mean that, you don't have to tell me anything. Understand? Right now, I'm just a guy asking a question."

_Cap said almost exactly the same thing when he asked all those questions earlier._ "Yessir," Mike replied neutrally and waited for the other man to speak.

"Do you have any kids?" McConnikee blurted out, deciding that was the best place to start.

"Kids? As in, children?" Stoker laughed in surprise at the question. "No, sir. So far, I'm just Uncle Mike, babysitter extraordinaire. I've left the procreation part up to my siblings. They seem to be doing a fine job of it, too," he added.

"Oh?" McConnikee's sparkling blue eyes invited his confidence.

Uncle Mike grinned proudly. "My brother's got three kids, all boys. And my two sisters have a set of twin girls each, born only a few days apart." _That_ had been a wild couple of days for the Stoker clan.

"Ahhh! That explains a lot." _Seven kids, three women, completely wrong conclusion_. Tom McConnikee chuckled. _Henry, Henry, Henry! When will you ever learn?_

"It does, … sir?" Mike began hesitantly, realizing what he'd just said to his superior. _Geez, Stoker, what is going on with your mouth these days? Get a grip, will you?_

"Just a guy asking a question, son, honest," the chief said reassuringly. He stepped closer, leaning in conspiratorially. "You see, it's like this. My, uhm, a _friend_ of mine has a daughter who, uh, expressed an interest in you, if you know what I mean." The two firemen exchanged a smile; there wasn't a fireman alive who hadn't been the object of some young girl's crush a time or two. It was almost a rite of passage in the department. "My friend jumped to some wrong conclusions, and I got an _earful_ this morning. Glad I'll be able to tell him you're _not_ a scoundrel, Michael. He was really worried about his little girl chasing after the wrong kind of guy."

"Better tell him I'm already seeing someone, too, sir," Mike said with a remarkably roguish smile for someone who wasn't a scoundrel. "Don't think my Patty Mack would be willing to share, not even with a first-grader." He chuckled, thinking back to the sweet notes from the children they'd read at lunch.

"Patty Mack?" the chief asked in surprise, eyebrows shooting up. Apparently, that interest his twin brother had suspected was real, mutual, and declared. _Stoker, you are one bold fella_.

"My girl," Mike said simply, unaware of how content he looked at that moment. Tom took the other man's measure again, with a different, more avuncular eye: tall, strong, confident, respected, good with kids, sense of humor, clearly smitten with his niece.

"Well, you better take good care of her, son. Patty's very special to _all_ of Clan M – ." The chief's HT crackled into life, cutting him off. After clapping Stoker warmly on the shoulder, Tom McConnikee resumed his Battalion Chief Persona and acknowledged the call crisply, striding toward the other end of the scene with a suitably gruff expression.

"Hey, Stoker, what did McConnikee want?" Kelly said, coming up beside the now-puzzled engineer. When he'd seen McConnikee with Mike, he'd slowed his pace, not sure he wanted to barge in on the conversation.

"He wanted to know if I already had kids," Mike said absently, watching the chief walk away. _What did he mean, Patty's special to the clan?_

"Seriously?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Apparently, a friend's little girl has a fireman crush," he said smiling at a sooty-faced Chet.

Chet snorted and headed for the water station. "I wonder if she's in the first grade, too." Mike laughed and returned to his task.

=+++= / +++++

(11 August)

"That's what I call great timing," Mike said, opening the door wider and welcoming Patty into his apartment just after 2 p.m. "I just" he yawned hugely, "woke up maybe five minutes ago."

"Mostly, at least, eh?" she teased as she stepped in, loaded plastic sacks hanging from both hands.

"What's all this?" he asked, lightly putting a hand on her back to direct her down the short hallway to the rest of the apartment.

"Our lunch, if you still like Chinese," Patty responded, lifting the bags slightly, with a quick glance up at his face.

"And if I don't?"

"_My_ lunch, your loss," she said laughing when he pretended to pout. Her eyes lingered on his face again.

"Good thing I like Chinese then," Stoker said, "or I'd go hungry. My cupboard's a bit bare at the moment." He smiled down at her as she deposited the fragrant bags on the dining room table and turned back to him expectantly. Mike pulled her closer to him, grazing her forehead with a light kiss of welcome.

"Oooh." He felt Patty flinch at the touch of his lips. Carefully pulling back, he looked closely at her wide green eyes, ready to release her at the slightest sign of fear or unease. They were both treading carefully in this new iteration of their friendship.

"Sorry, did I …?"

"It just, uh, startled me, I guess," she explained, her eyes darting over his face again. "The scruff, I mean," Patty said with a tiny smile. _Sweet petunia, how many volts was that lightning?_

Mike chuckled, running a hand over his face, feeling his morning, er, afternoon beard. "Yeah, shaving wasn't high on the list of priorities for any of us when the tones sounded this morning. Intravenous coffee was needed more."

"Tough shift?" she asked kindly and he shrugged.

"Long shift." _The fire at Mama's Kitchen, two rush-hour MVAs, a grass fire, dumpster fire behind a bar, MVA just down the street from the bar, vehicle fire in a garage, plus three or four night runs for just the squad, in a little more than twelve hours. Yeah, that's a long shift …._

"In that case, why don't you sit down right here," she said, pulling him toward the table and pushing him into a chair, "and I'll set out our lunch and you can tell me all about it while we eat?"

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed. Patty stepped to the other side of the table and began pulling an assortment of white cartons out of the first bag. When she ducked into the kitchen, Mike stood up and walked through the living room.

"Hey, where are you going?" she said, coming out of the kitchen with her hands full of serving spoons and plates, setting them down on the table quickly.

"Thought I'd get rid of this so I won't scare you again," Stoker replied, looking over his shoulder at her and rubbing his whiskered face. "Won't take but a moment," he said, continuing toward the bathroom. "I promise."

"_No!_" Patty's immediate protest startled him and he turned back, a surprised look on his face. "I _love_ scruff. I mean, you don't have to, for me. That is, could you, uhm, just wait until later?" Her face flamed then and she covered her face with her hands. _I can't believe I just said that. Maybe I can hide under the table until he leaves. Oh, wait, he lives here._

"Patty?" His voice was substantially closer now and she risked peering through her fingers. Mike was propped up against the back edge of the couch, non-threatening, curious, patient, amused.

"This is so embarrassing."

"Nah, embarrassing is falling over a ceramic skunk and into a flower bed of dichondra at a fire scene." She giggled behind her hands. "Or, bragging to your battalion chief about your siblings' procreative prowess."

"You didn't!" Patty exclaimed, dropping her hands to look him straight in the eye. He grinned and stood up, taking the few steps necessary to bridge the distance between them.

"'Tis a true fact, ma'am." Stoker captured her fallen hands in his, thumbs ghosting over them lightly. "So, how 'bout we sit back down right over here," he pulled out the chair for her with one hand and settled her into it, "and eat our lunch together while I tell you about the embarrassing parts of my day?"

"Sounds like a plan, specialist." She paused then added with a twinkle in her eyes. "We can talk about the scruff … later."

=+++= / =++++

"So, there I am walking the hose when the battalion chief comes over and – ."

"Wait, did you say you were walking the _hose_?"

"Yeah, draining and checking the hose. You start at one end, lifting the hose as you go like this," he explained, miming the action for her, "and the water drains out. Since you handle every inch of the line, you can find tears, breaks, weak spots, whatever. If you find something, you have to mark it and pull the line out of service. Sometimes you can repair it but a lot of – what?"

"You really love your job, don't you, specialist?" Mike raised an eyebrow at her indulgent smile. "It shows whenever you talk about it. Go on with your story," she said, waving her chopsticks at him. "You were walking the dog, er, hose and the chief comes up…."

"Uhm, so he asks me if I have any kids and I'm so surprised I just blurt out that I've, uh, 'left the procreation part up to my siblings', I think it was, and said they'd been doing a 'fine job of it, too'. I tell him about their kids, he chuckles and says that explains it all. And _that's_ when I realized what I'd just said to Chief McConnikee." She laughed at his expression of mock terror and handed him the other egg roll.

"So why was Unc-, er, Tommy McConnikee asking you about kids?"

"Fireman crush, nervous father," he replied succinctly, biting into his egg roll. "Mmm, this is good."

"It's from that place on Alameda, by the bowling alley. Have you tried the kung pao chicken yet? It's yummy." Patty spooned some onto his plate when he shook his head. "So how'd you take the news some little girl had pinned her hopes on you?"

"Told Chief McConnikee his friend's little girl was outta luck since I didn't think my Patty Mack," he winked at her, "would be willing to share."

"Got that right, specialist," she said with a giggle. "Wow! I can't believe you actually said that to Uncle Tommy! I hadn't told him yet," Patty admitted, while looking for the carton of pork fried rice. "So what did he say to that? I bet he gave you the – ahh, there it is," she said, triumphantly holding up the rice, then frowning when she saw his pale face. "Mike? What's wrong?"

"Did you," he swallowed, tried again. "Patty, did you just say _Uncle_ Tommy?"

=+++= / ==+++

(Later that evening, at Patty's.)

"This is going to take a little getting used to, you know."

"Oh?"

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all."

"It's not so bad, is it?"

"No, it's just going to take me a minute to process it."

"Well, specialist, if you need to take a minute, you need to take a minute."

"Thanks."

"Okay, you've had a minute. Let's try this again."

"Why am I so nervous all of a sudden?"

"You know, if you want to just forget about, uh, this, I would understand …."

"No! That's not it, lady green eyes. It's just so weird to realize, after all this time …."

"I have to admit I was a bit surprised too. Now, are we going to try this again or not?"

"Yes. I can do this."

"Okay, I'm ready too."

"Mc_Con_nikee."

"Good."

"McCon_ni_kee."

"See? It's not that hard."

"McConni_kee_."

"Excellent. Do you want to put it together now? There's a reward if you do."

"Oh?"

"Try it and see, specialist."

"Okay, Miss … McConnikee."

A feather-light kiss brushed his cheek.

"Miss Patricia McConnikee."

Another kiss, grazing his lips this time.

"_You_ are Patty _McConnikee_."

Another, lingering until he spoke.

"That's quite an incentive program you have there … Miss McConnikee."

Another kiss, by his ear.

"You know, I could really come to enjoy saying … Patty McConnikee."

"Specialist Stoker?" She targeted the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, Miss McConnikee?" The tip of his nose.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"

"Not recently, no, Miss Patricia McConni – mmmm."

From the other end of the couch, the cat watched his humans' odd grooming behavior for a moment more then hopped down to stalk the shadows in the silken moonlight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

=+++= / +====

(15 August)

"Stoker? Got a minute?" Cap asked once the other men had left the bay. Their chores should take them to the far reaches of the station, giving him a moment of privacy with his engineer, one that was less intimidating than his office.

"Sure, Cap," Mike replied, throat still scratchy. He motioned for Mike to sit down on Big Red's running boards then sat beside him.

"How ya feelin' this morning?" he asked. This was the second shift in a row Mike had come in with a raspy voice. It might be nothing but then again….

"Okay, Cap," he said, puzzled at the question he'd answered twice before. "Throat's just a little scratchy." After last night's fundraiser, he was surprised he had a voice at all. Every single item, it seemed, had been hotly contested … which was good for the charity but not so much for his voice. He planned to use Chet's tea as soon as he had a chance. Mike had to admit the blend was soothing to the throat. Maybe he'd do better drinking it throughout the night instead of waiting until the next morning.

"Sure it's nothing more?" Hank pressed. "If you're not feeling up to it today, I can call in a sub for you."

"No, I'm fine." He waited for Captain Stanley to continue but the other man simply looked at him expectantly. "I just had to do a lot of, uh, talking at the party last night," Mike finally admitted.

"Party?" _Mike had gone out __partying__ last night?_

"Well, it was a fundraiser actually, for that kids' charity I help out with sometimes. There was a great crowd and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves." Patty had been a riot, rolling a dessert cart loaded with some of the smaller items all around the room so everyone had a chance to see them close up, joking with the patrons about what they should buy. _Funny and beautiful, that's my lady green eyes,_ he thought, smiling at the memory.

The slightly dopey smile didn't escape Hank's notice. "Did you …," Hank paused, then pushed on. "Michael, did you have much to drink last night?" They both knew there were no specific regulations preventing a firefighter from drinking the night before a shift … as long as he was sober and able to perform his duties when he arrived.

The question called Mike back to the here and now in a flash, and there was a hardness in his voice when he answered. "I don't drink before going on shift, Cap. Not ever."

"Okay, pal, I believe you. I just need to … make sure you are one hundred percent." Feeling he owed Mike more of an explanation, Hank continued, "I don't know if you saw it but there was a memo a few days ago about the death of a former engineer with the Department – ."

"Paul Kyson," Mike said bleakly, looking at his hands.

"You knew Paul?" Hank asked, surprised.

Mike leaned his head back and closed his eyes, quoting from memory: "_'You hold the lives of your crew in your hands. I want each of you to understand that in no uncertain terms. You cannot operate your engines safely and effectively when you are distracted or ill or drunk – or even just hung over. Learn that lesson now and act accordingly. You don't want to relearn this one on the job.'_" He looked over at his captain. "I was in the first group to go through the Kyson Drill, Hank. Paul ran it himself that year, you know," he added softly. "It was really rough."

"Wow, Mike, I didn't realize you were in _that_ group…."

"Yup. Like I said, I don't drink before going on shift, Cap. Not _ever_."

=+++= / ++===

(About six years earlier….)

Somehow – and he wasn't sure how right now – he had gotten separated from the others. He had just gotten a little turned around and when he made it _back_ around, the others were just gone. Poof! No more firefighter buddies, no more newly-promoted engineers getting welcomed into the club, no more no ones. At all. He blinked, trying to figure out what to do next.

Then he saw _her_. Walking down the hallway of the dormitory, pretty, oh so pretty, straight toward _him_.

"Hi!" he said, smiling at her, his blue eyes not really focusing properly. He made an effort and found they was even prettier when they was just one of her, 'cuz she didn't overlap herself as much as they did themselves. She had pretty edges and pretty eyes and – .

"Hey, big guy, you look like you could use some help," she said with a ghost of a smile on her face. The tall, muscular man wearing a gray 'Property of LACoFD' t-shirt appeared to have been visiting O'Malley's, if the distinctive red-and-gold napkin sticking out of his jean pocket was any indication.

"That's suppos'd to me _by_ line," he said, tapping his chest. "I'm a firefighter. I help people." _Oh, yeah, definitely been to the pub_, she thought as he twisted up his words.

"Well, that's good. Why don't you _help me get you_ back to your room, okay, firefighter?" He considered it, then nodded happily.

"Okay. I'll help me get you back to ... where are we goin'?"

"Your room."

"Oh," he said and frowned. "If we're goin' to your room, I oughta know your name, donya think? What's your name?"

"Well, my name is Patty, firefighter."

"Pattyfirefighter? That's a pretty name. Pat-ty-fi-re-figh-ter. Hey! I want you to know something. I really need to tell you this. 'cuz it's important, it's a _really_ dig beal." She looked up at him expectantly, automatically unjumbling his speech. "I'm not a firefighter anymore. Nope. Not a firefighter anymore." The man who had wanted to be a fireman since he was four seemed extremely happy to be breaking this news to the pretty girl who was trying to walk him back the way he had come.

"Okay, okay, I hear you, you're not a firefighter anymore." _Intoxicated, harmless, not a firefighter, got it_, she thought, more and more amused by his babbling.

"Not a firefighter no more, 'cuz now I'm a firefighter specialist! Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker!" He pulled himself fully upright, t-shirt stretching tight across his muscular upper body, and saluted crisply, then wobbled. "That's me!" He poked himself in the chest with his index finger for emphasis, then rubbed the now-tender spot briefly. He paused and motioned her closer, saying in a hot whiskey-scented whisper when she obligingly leaned toward him, "But you, Pattyfirefighter, you can just call me 'specialist.' Do ya hear me? I like you, lady green eyes, so you can call me 'specialist'."

"Sure, Mr. Stoker."

"_Specialist_, please. Please call me 'sp-specialist'?" The word was getting harder to say, but he liked the word. It was a good word. It was a special word. It was _him_ now.

"Sure thing, specialist," she drawled obligingly and winked up at him despite herself.

"Thank you … very much, … Pattyfirefighter." He took a deep breath, smiled hugely – then started to topple over. Patty arrested his tumble and pushed him toward the wall, using it to ease him down to the floor. She rolled him onto his side as a precaution, as familiar with this aspect of dorm life as she was with O'Malley's napkins. Patty idly wondered how many phone numbers a good-looking guy like him had managed to collect during his, uhm, outing. She patted him on the shoulder gently then stood.

Patty walked on down the hall, making a right hand turn to the area where most of the firemen were housed for this week's training. She'd passed only a few doors when she heard an irate voice say loudly from the half-open doorway ahead: "What do you mean you _lost_ him?"

_Ah_, Patty thought, _this must be the place,_ and raised her hand to knock. The door was pulled open by another large, muscular man before she could, however, and she barely kept herself from knocking on his chest.

"Hi," she said brightly to the surprised man. "I don't suppose you fellas are missing a tall, blue-eyed firefighter specialist named Stoker, are you?"

=+++= / +++==

Patty was up extra early in the morning, at the senior engineer's invitation. While his assistant had retrieved Specialist Stoker, he had gravely explained that the Los Angeles County Fire Department's six newly-promoted engineers were participating in a training exercise, albeit an unconventional one, and were not, as it might seem, merely getting really drunk on a, uh, school night. He called it a Kyson Drill, his voice catching a bit as he did. Patty had been a little curious and a little skeptical. Now, she was in the parking lot by the dormitory, waiting for the rest of the drill to be enacted on the mock-up control panels set up there.

At the senior engineer's signal, loud tones sounded, unceremoniously rousing the six men from their beds inside. They pulled on their waiting turnout gear, and, with much shouting from the trainers, were herded to the control panels for a complex drill. Blood-shot eyes, headaches, and generally queasiness were the order of the morning. Not surprisingly, as their initial adrenaline surges wore off and their hangovers reasserted themselves, the men began making mistakes, not reacting quickly enough to the changing conditions, losing track of what was going on with their 'engine' or at their 'fire,' some even having difficulty reading the dials. The trainers continued yelling and making noise which was designed to simulate a chaotic fire scene, add to the new engineers' confusion, and exacerbate every feeling of physical discomfort they might possibly be experiencing. About the only thing they didn't do was turn a fire hose on them. Even Patty's head was pounding a bit from all the clanging and shouting, and she was stone-cold sober.

By the time the drill was completed, more than half of the engineers' hypothetical crews were dead, dying or injured due to errors they had made. One of the men – her 'specialist' from last night – kept staring at the panel after the simulation had ended as if he couldn't understand or accept what had gone wrong. At one point, he reached up and gently tapped one of the gauges as if to say _that's the one I needed_. He and the others were called over to a group of chairs which had been set up under a nearby tent, Patty following after a nod from the senior engineer.

Coffee was passed around to at least partially revive these new engineers. A brief post-mortem of each man's performance followed. It wasn't harsh, but it was thorough. She wasn't sure how much each of them had absorbed but suspected they'd go over it again later.

"Let me cut to the chase, here, men," the senior engineer finally said. "You hold the lives of your crew in your hands. I wanted each of you to understand that in no uncertain terms. You cannot operate your engines safely and effectively when you are distracted or ill or drunk – or even just hung over like now." He paused, mouth tightening. "Learn that lesson now, from this training, and act accordingly. Trust me; you don't want to relearn this on the job." A longer pause. "You are all dismissed until 1300. I recommend you gentlemen get some sleep."

=+++= / ++++=

Paul Kyson watched the young pups head back to the dorms, tails dragging. The trainers would see to hydrating the boys and tucking them in, with appropriate headache and hangover remedies. He saw the dorm's resident assistant who'd watched the drill stop one of the men who was lagging behind the others, and wondered again why she looked so familiar.

=+++= / +++++

"Excuse me, Mr. Stoker?"

Stoker halted his careful shuffle when it became obvious even to his messed-up brain that the dark-haired woman was speaking to him. "Yes, miss?"

"Are you okay?"

_I'm hung-over, ashamed, and embarrassed. I have a headache the size of Kansas, and I'm about to pee in my pants_, he thought to himself, closing his eyes briefly_._ "I'm a little tired, miss," Mike said aloud, reopening his aching blood-shot eyes and looking at her. She looked familiar, especially those big green eyes. _Pretty eyes, pretty edges_. The words slithered through his mind but he couldn't quite catch them.

"Well, I don't want to keep you. I just wanted to make sure you were alright after your , uhm, adventure last night. And, when you get feeling better again, I'd really like you to give me a call, … specialist." She gently smiled up at the tall engineer, thrust something into his hand, and quickly walked off before she could change her mind and snatch it back.

_Adventure? What adventure?,_ he asked himself, looking down at the first name and phone number written in green ink on the back of what looked like an old library catalogue card, hoping it would trigger a memory. _Sure thing, specialist_, slinked through his head.

"Stoker! There you are, man." The instructor smiled broadly as he located his wayward charge for the second time in less than twelve hours. "Kyson woulda had my head on a platter if I'd lost you again this week, boy."

"Lost me again?" Mike echoed stupidly. A warm chuckle, the promise of an explanation, and he was led back to his room once more.

=+++= / =++++

**Kyson Drill**, n. [**kahy**-s_uh_n dril] – A training exercise/demonstration involving the consumption of alcohol, the performance of a complex task while impaired, and a debriefing/discussion session. Sometimes referred to as drink/drill/decide exercise. Origin: after _Sean Kyson_, a firefighter who died in the line of duty. _See_ "Impaired Fireman Blamed for Deaths" L.A. Times, June 6, 19-, B1.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

=+++= / +====

(17 August)

"Roll call in ten, gentlemen! The call of the day is … _two_ girls' names." In short order, five blue-shirted men stood in a line, buttons buttoned, badges buffed, boots burnished, awaiting their captain's pleasure.

"DeSoto?"

"Joanne and Jenny," Roy said immediately. _No other girl names sound so sweet_, he thought smiling.

"Gage?"

"Rosa … and Jenny." There was a small twitter of amusement from someone.

"Kelly?"

"Brianna … and Jenny." Kelly winked at Gage.

"Lopez?"

"Maria-Caroline … and Jenny," Marco said, radiating innocence at Roy's scowl.

"Stoker?"

"Patricia … and Jenny," Mike responded, returning Roy's glare with a what-did-I-do look.

"And, Emily and Amanda," Stanley said, completing roll call. "And Jenny," he drawled after a beat, drawing a laugh from all of his men, including Roy who finally realized he'd been played.

"Alrighty, then. Now that we've established the popularity of a certain young lady's name in this firehouse, let's get back to business, shall we? First thing this morning, we have an inspection at the Exhibit Hall. C-shift was handling it yesterday afternoon when they got called out for that warehouse fire and, well, they didn't get back over there to finish it." That scene hadn't been cleared until after 9 p.m. "It's a pretty big place but the floor plan looks good. Now, I don't think this will take too long if we all heave to and don't get called out. The event itself opens up around 3 p.m., right, Mike?"

"Right, Cap," he replied, wondering how _this_ was going to play out. _Put her in a box? Take her out of the box? Jump in the box __with__ her, close the lid and hope no one notices? Hey, I like that one._

"Roy, John, as soon as you finish your calibrations and inventory, we'll head on over. Dismissed."

Affirmative replies echoed through the bay as the men of Station 51 prepared for the day's work. Mike headed to the kitchen to make a grocery list since it was also his turn to cook. As he walked by, the phone rang and he automatically reached for it.

"Station 51, Fireman Stoker speaking."

"Specialist! I'm so glad I got you." Patty's warm voice flowed through the receiver into his waiting ear. "There's a problem." He could hear Charlie and Frank arguing amiably in the background and assumed she was at the Exhibit Hall.

"Don't worry about the fire inspection, Patty. _We_ will be over to do it shortly." He leaned against the wall, smiling at the thought of seeing her beautiful green eyes again so soon. It was like a bonus sunrise to a sun-starved soul.

"Good. But, uh, that's not the problem." She sounded agitated which was unlike her.

"What _is_ the problem?" he asked as soothingly as if he had been taking lessons from Roy. The senior paramedic's voice, it was rumored, could soothe hysterical children, screaming parents, and charging wildebeests in four syllables or less.

"It's my dad, Michael. He wants to _meet_ you." The use of his given name in full, especially by Patty, startled him upright. He could count on the fingers of one hand how often that had happened in the past six years.

_He wants to meet me_? "Did he say why?" he asked carefully as a little tendril of unease began to worm its way into his belly and cuddle up next to his spleen.

"Nooooo, but I know something's up, the way he's been acting this past week."

"Well, if your father wants to meet me, Patty, I'd be happy to oblige him." _Best to meet this head-on_, he thought, _whatever it is_. His eye fell on the shift calendar posted on the wall by the phone. "Starting tomorrow, I have four days off – ."

"I know, remember?" she broke in softly. They'd been planning to spend a good part of that time together, without the distraction of upcoming fundraisers.

" – So maybe he and I can find a time to meet on this break. Let him know, okay?"

"I will, Mike," she said, unhappiness sharpening her voice. "Look, I'd better go. We've still got a lot of stuff to set out and – ."

"Hold it. I _do_ remember what we've got planned, lady green eyes, and I _don't_ plan on missing out." He paused. "Got me?"

"I got ya, specialist," Patty replied with a pleased giggle.

=+++= / ++===

"Roy? How'd the inspection go?"

"Fine, Cap. One of the organizers sounded a little disappointed when I told her the rest of the station had been called out to a grass fire on the way over, said something about expecting an expert, no, a specialist to stop by."

"Oh, really? Hmmp. Interesting."

"Johnny and I were able to knock it out pretty quickly, actually. The floor plan was followed _exactly_, I mean, to the foot. How often do you see that?"

"Not very often, Roy. So, uh, what's all this?"

"It's about the event they're having at the hall, actually. Today and tomorrow there's entertainment, an auction, food, some stuff for kids. Rand – Johnny's cousin – donated some items for the auction and he was dropping the stuff off while we were there. He gave us all this info. Johnny was so excited he bought tickets for everyone here at the station."

"Awful nice of him."

"If it's okay, I was just about to go show the guys this stuff and give them their tickets."

"Go ahead, pally. Oh, can you tell Mike I wanna talk to him for a sec?"

"Sure thing, Cap."

=+++= / +++==

(18 August)

[Author's note: In part of the following section, words in italics are spoken rapidly while words in normal type are spoken at a standard or even slow tempo. Trust me; you'll understand when you get there.]

"Johnny! One of mine is next, I think," Rand said nervously, pulling his cousin to the side of the crowd where they could see better.

"Made it just in time, then, didn't I, _mato_?" Gage said, putting a calming hand on his cousin's shoulder. Wondering if Roy and Joanne had made it to their seats, he turned to the dais a new auctioneer had just mounted.

He blinked. Twice.

_Stoker!?_

Mike spotted Johnny standing next to Rand and flashed him a grin. He gave his open-mouthed brother firefighter a nod then, all business again, turned to Patty for information on the next lot.

"Our next item is Lot 205 – a Lakota Indian _siyotanka_ or flute, made by local artisan Randall Bearguide," Mike began, voice deep and smooth, as Patty displayed the piece to the crowd and passed it to the other handlers. "Excellent craftsmanship in this piece, constructed of cedar with a spruce block and leather ties. If you were here earlier, you heard the sweet tone this fine instrument has." He was pleased to see several heads nodding; Rand's impromptu concert had been a brilliant idea. Mike drew a deep breath and said: "Okay, who will _give me fifty – fifty – fifty? Fifty! High bid fifty now fifty-five, now fifty-five, now fifty-five. Fifty-five! Now sixty, now sixty, high bid fifty-five, do I hear sixty? Sixty! Sixty now sixty-five, now sixty-five. Whadya say? Believe I would! High bid sixty, looking for sixty-five. Sixty-five! Now seventy, do I hear seventy?_ Miss, you're out. The man in the back has the high bid of sixty-five. Will ya give me seventy? Seventy – seventy – seventy? Seventy! Sir? Yup! Now eighty!"

"One hundred dollars," came a firm voice from the back of the crowd.

"One hundred, from a new bidder. Thank you, sir! _High bid one hundred, now one-ten. One-ten! One-ten do I hear one-twenty-five? One-twenty-five! One-twenty-five now one-fifty. One-fifty! _One-seventy-five? Yup! Two hundred? Yup! _High bid two hundred, now two-twenty-five. Two-twenty-five. Two-twenty-five! Two-fifty? Two-fifty? Who'll give me two-fifty? High bid two-twenty-five, now two-fifty? Two-fifty! Now two-seventy-five. Two-seventy-five! Three hundred? Three hundred? High bid two-seventy-five, now three hundred._ Folks, we have here a _siyotanka_, a Native American flute handcrafted of cedar and spruce, with an excellent tone. The current high bid is two hundred seventy-five dollars. Will anyone give me three hundred dollars for this superb instrument? Two-seventy-five, do I hear three hundred? Three hundred! _High bid three hundred, now three-twenty-five, three-twenty-five, three-twenty-five. Three hundred, now three-twenty-five. Three-twenty-five! Three-fifty – three-fifty – three-fifty? High bid three-twenty-five, do I hear three-fifty? _High bid is three-twenty-five, now three-fifty. Three-fifty? Three-fifty? Going once, going twice … sold for three-twenty-five to number 382! Lot two-oh-five to number three-eight-two for three-hundred-twenty-five dollars." Mike grinned again, well-pleased with the result.

"Wow," Rand said, amazed at how much the flute had sold for.

"Wow is right," Johnny agreed, amazed at Stoker's loquacity.

"Chester, close your mouth or you'll be catching flies," Hank murmured to his lineman on the other side of the room.

"Cap, that's Stoker," Kelly replied shakily, pointing weakly.

"I do believe you're right, Chet," Cap agreed calmly, nodding his head slightly. "That's definitely Mike Stoker." Next to him, Marco laughed silently, turning various shades of red in an effort to contain himself then hurrying from the room a few moments later before he burst.

"Are you okay?" Joanne asked her husband, mystified as to why Roy seemed to be frozen with his hot dog halfway into his open mouth while he stared up at the auctioneer. She turned to look and brightened, saying, "Hey, isn't that Mike up there? Is that the girlfriend? She's certainly cute."

With only the briefest of pauses between lots and the occasional sip from the steaming mug Patty regularly passed up to him, Mike continued talking.

"The next lot, number 206, consists of two items – a Seminole rattle and drum crafted by Daniel TwoBirds …."

"Now we have lot number 207, a kinetic sculpture by Zack and Oona Crim. This is a table-top version of Zack's famous work 'The Terrible Decade' which is on permanent display at the New York Museum of ….

"Lot 208 is another piece of modern art. This sculpture is 'Number 17' by Larissa Handel, another L.A. native ….

"Lot 209 consists of a trio of hand-blown glass vases, circa 1935. The interior of each vase is an opaque white glass while the exteriors are translucent shades of red, orange, and yellow….

"Our next item, Lot 210, is one of my favorites – a hand-blown tear-drop whimsy vase from the 1890s. In the glass houses of the time, small bits of leftover glass were collected throughout the day and, at the end of the day, combined to form a molten blob of glass called a gather. The gather was streaked with the various colors of the day's work, resulting in unique patterns ….

And talking.

"Lot 215 involves the use of a lovely seaside cottage on a private beach for one week. The cottage accommodates up to twelve and is staffed by a cook and a housekeeper. Minimum bid on this package is …."

"The next lot, number 216, is for the more adventurous: Your choice of either six hang-gliding lessons or ten parachute jumps. This includes …."

"Lot 217 is for the gastronomically-minded – ten private cooking lessons with celebrity chef Garris …."

"Ah, we're ready for Lot 218 now. This is a nautically-themed package donated by a romantic. Three days, two nights at a converted lighthouse complete with romantic candlelight dinners, use of a 26' sailboat, and plenty of beachcombing ….

And talking.

"The next lot is number 226. Four tickets to a Rams' home game, with everything you need for a great game day experience including tailgating …."

"We now have lot number 227. 'Sounds of L.A.' is a six-concert series exploring the various styles of music that make Los Angeles famous, including up-and-coming acts such as The Delirium Threemen and Krinkle, and more established performers such as the Philharmonic. Dining, transportation, backstage passes, and four tickets to each concert make this perfect for music lovers…."

And talking.

"Well, folks, my lovely assistant here has informed me we've run out of items in this section. We'll be taking a short break and reconvening in Section L in about ten minutes. If you are interested in textiles, you won't want to miss this next group. And once again, thank you for your generosity and participation."

Before stepping down, Mike looked around and saw that his brother firefighters had clumped together near the back of the seating area and were staring in his direction, arms folded across their manly chests. He turned to Patty. "Wanna meet da guys now, Miss McConnikee?" he asked wickedly.

Planting a chaste kiss on his cheek, she replied, "Sure do, specialist."

=+++= / ++++=

"Hey, guys, I'd like you to meet someone," Mike said in greeting as he and Patty walked up to the group, fingers entwined. They all looked at him without saying anything for a minute. "Uh, guys?"

"You know, Chet, he does look kinda like Mike Stoker," Cap said in a considered tone of voice, peering at one side of his engineer's face then the other, giving Stoker a covert wink as he did.

"He's about the right height," Chet added, taking a step forward to measure himself against the other man, then stepping back again.

"Right eye color, right hair color, too," Marco said after inspecting him closely.

"But there's something _different_ about him," Johnny said. "I can't quite put my finger on it, though. Can you, Roy?"

"Let me see. I got it! It's his hairstyle," Roy pointed excitedly.

"No, I don't think so, pal," Hank disagreed. "It looks the same to me."

"Well, what could it be then?" Marco moved forward, slowly walking around the bemused couple as though conducting a formal inspection of the newest boot at the station, murmuring about shoes needing a shine. Chet and Johnny followed solemnly. Johnny paused to look in Mike's ear with one eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth pulled down in a fake frown until Mike turned his head and made a face at him. Johnny squeaked and hid behind Roy, peeking over his shoulder with wide eyes. Chet gently prodded him in the bicep until Mike flexed his arm; Chet pretended his finger had gotten hurt poking the rock solid muscle and turned to Johnny who examined the injured appendage carefully.

"I think I've figured it out, boys," Cap said finally. "It's his mouth."

"Do you want me to check his teeth?" Roy offered, stepping forward. "I've seen my uncle do that with horses."

Cap eyed Stoker carefully, whose grin only got bigger. "Nooo, I don't think that'll be necessary, Roy. We can see all his teeth already. See, it's the smile that's different, bigger somehow."

"Well, he's also got something new on his arm, Cap," Johnny pointed out soberly. "Think that might be affecting his smile?"

"His watch looks the same to me, Johnny," Roy broke in, peering down at the silver metallic watch Mike was wearing.

"No, Roy, the _other_ arm, there." Johnny gestured hesitantly at Patty who was, by now, amiably tucked in next to Stoker.

"Ah! That's new. Cap?"

"Maybe so, maybe so."

"But we're sure it's Mike, right?" Marco asked with feigned concern. "I mean, we were all witnesses of that extraordinary display of …."

"Loquacity."

"Verbosity."

"And pleonastic oration."

"Despite that, I think we can all safely conclude it's Stoker, Marco," Hank said. "Agreed? Alrighty then, moving on."

"Hi, Mike!" All five men greeted him in chorus, grinning.

"Hi, guys," Stoker said, laughing and rolling his eyes, Patty giggling.

"Uh, I believe you said something about introductions, pally?" Looking pleased, Hank rocked back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets.

"Right, Cap. Patty, let me introduce these characters to you. This is our captain, Hank Stanley."

"Real pleasure, miss," Hank said, taking her hand gently and smiling down into her eyes.

"Lineman Marco Lopez …."

"_Encantado, senorita_," he murmured, dark eyes twinkling as he leaned forward to shake her hand. _Yeah, I get the humming now, Mikey._

"Chet Kelly, the other member of the engine crew."

"Nice to meet you, Patty," Chet replied, noticing her green eyes. "I can see why Mike's been humming – hey, what's that for?" he asked as Marco elbowed him.

"And our paramedics, Roy DeSoto …."

"Miss, it's good to _officially_ meet you," Roy said cordially, shaking her hand.

"And John Gage."

"Patty," he said warmly, taking her hand in his own and smiling down at her charmingly, giving Patty a friendly wink and making a show of reluctantly releasing her hand when Mike cleared his throat warningly.

"I've been looking forward to meeting all of you," Patty responded, green eyes amused. Stoker wrapped his arms around her possessively, shooting a glare at Gage who returned it with the look of an injured innocent, causing everyone to chuckle. "As you've probably guessed by now," she said, glancing up at Stoker fondly, "I'm Mike's girlfriend … Patty McConnikee."

"_**McConnikee?!" **_


	9. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

The large industrial building was empty and peaceful. Two rows of steel-and-concrete structural columns were spaced evenly along the length of the facility's main room, supporting a high ceiling crossed with girders. A double row of large older-style windows with several blown out panes were covered with clear plastic sheeting, allowing light to pour in from the south. Additional windows, now partially boarded up, graced the remaining walls, suggesting the facility had been a pleasant place to work at one time. The lack of trash and debris suggested someone had taken the time to preserve and protect this empty echoing room.

Blackened walls and a faint smell of soot bore silent witness to a substantial fire sometime in the room's past.

"Mr. Stoker?"

Mike turned, recognizing the older man at once, and held out his hand. "Mr. McConnikee."

"Thank you for agreeing to meet me here," Henry said, shaking hands with the taller man. "You're probably wondering why and why here."

"The location is a bit different," Mike acknowledged, "but I imagine you wanted to talk to me about Patty, sir."

"Yes, yes, I did," he said, looking down at his hands. "Patty's very special to all of Clan McConnikee and – ."

"She's special to me, too, sir," Mike replied quickly, then winced. _Don't interrupt the man, Stoker, let him have his say. Great first impression, just great._

"My daughter's quite taken with you as well, young man," Henry replied, a bit of a smile crossing his face when Mike blushed. "That's why we're having this conversation." Stoker smiled then, the flash of humor putting him at ease.

"Yes, sir."

"There's a bit of McConnikee family history I'd like to share with you," Henry said, motioning for the other man to follow. He stopped before a particular column on the south side of the room, running one hand reverently down the face, the soot transferring to his fingertips unnoticed. "When Patty was about three years old, she and her mother stopped in here to use the phone. It was a textile mill at the time and the owner, seeing Patty's fascination with the looms and such, offered to give them a tour. They were right about here," he said, hands sketching a location next to the column, "when a fire broke out at the far end of the room." He gestured to the far corner where extensive fire and smoke damage was still visible.

Mike turned, visualizing the room full of people and machines, gauging the distance, calculating the time it would take for a fire to block the centrally-located exits, estimating how quickly a woman with a small child could move. His eyes were grim with a firefighter's knowledge when he turned back to Patty's father.

"They were able to stay close to the floor, Morgana somehow keeping Patty moving in the right direction and shielding her from falling debris as best she could. As they were nearing that door there, a warping machine collapsed." He took a breath and continued in the same matter-of-fact tone. "A large rack holding scores of bobbins of thread caught Morgana across the back, pinning her down. She'd been hunched over Patty at the time so Patty ended up trapped beneath her. Morgana was able to push herself up enough to keep from smothering Patty but not enough to let her get free." He stopped, staring at a spot on the floor perhaps fifteen feet from the exit. Moving like that, the doctors had said, had caused more damage to Morgana's back.

"How bad?" Mike asked finally, mouth as dry as sandpaper. He knew Patty's mother had died some time ago but not the circumstances.

"They were lucky. We, uh, the fire department arrived and found them quickly. Patty had some smoke inhalation issues but only relatively minor burns since she'd been under her mother. Morgana, on the other hand, had second and third degree burns on her legs and back. And spinal trauma." He sighed deeply. "Permanently paralyzed from the waist down, nerve damage from the burns. It was a long, slow recovery, but my _súile-glasa_ [green eyes] came back and we had some good years as a family afterwards."

"I'm glad of that, sir," Mike said softly.

"I, uh, know you have a fairly large extended family, Michael; they come together when there is a crisis, right?" Stoker nodded. "Well, our family does the same. From the moment my wife was injured in this fire until she passed on in her sleep of a pulmonary embolism ten years ago, the whole McConnikee Clan was very involved in our day-to-day lives. They still are, to a great extent. As a result, Patty's uncles and cousins, in particular, are rather, uhm, _protective_ of her."

"I can understand that, sir," Mike broke in, thinking about how he would feel in a similar situation. He had a sudden _need_ to wrap his arms around Patty, to shield her from every possible danger. "Thank you for sharing this. It makes Patty all the more precious to me." He looked around the room, again seeing the fire advance unchecked for impossibly long minutes, again watching the determined journey of a mother and her child, again witnessing the pain of being trapped and the terror of trapping a loved one. "She must have been an extraordinary woman, your wife," Mike said slowly.

"She was," Henry agreed softly. "Patty is much like her." The silence lengthened, then was broken by Henry's faint cough.

"Now, Mr. Stoker," McConnikee's voice was suddenly hard, almost menacing, "before things go any further between you and my daughter, I want you to keep in mind the following." Stoker had turned back to him, straightening unconsciously but meeting the other man's eyes unflinchingly. "If you and Patty continue to date each other, you'll probably be under a lot of _scrutiny_ from folks named McConnikee. If you step out of line with her, someone named McConnikee is likely to be right there to _correct_ your misjudgment. And, if you hurt her, I can _guarantee_ Clan McConnikee will be paying you a visit you won't soon forget." Patty's father glared at him, eyes narrowing slightly, and waited.

Mike considered Henry's words carefully, giving them due weight, then nodded. "I can live with that, sir," he said then added, "but I don't want to continue to date Patty."

"You don't?" Henry asked, surprise opening his eyes wide. _Patty is gonna kill me, if I've scared __this__ one away. Never seen her more besotted with someone. Although I thought he'd be tougher than this…._

"No, sir. I want to marry her." He held up a hand to forestall Henry's response. "I know it's too soon, I'm not planning to rush things, and I know it may _not_ work out, but … I'm in this for the long haul." He paused. "And knowing how Clan McConnikee views Patty makes me a lot more … comfortable pursuing this relationship, with all its risks."

"Really?" asked Henry, then chuckled. "You know, that's not the usual response to the Revenge of the Clan McConnikee speech, son." _Oh-ho, this is interesting._

Mike chuckled again despite himself. "I thought it sounded pretty polished. I take it you've had to give it a few times before?"

"Tommy and I both have had a lot of practice at it," Henry replied with a smile, remembering a few eager young men who'd gotten a wonder-twin-powers-activate double-dose of The Speech. "But, why would it make you _more_ likely to …."

"I have four nieces, sir, two sets of twins born within two days of each other. There were some complications, but the whole Stoker contingent responded to the challenge of taking care of our girls, big and little," he explained. "At the station, we look out for each other on the job because that's the only way we can do our jobs. But when one of the guys is injured or someone's family is in need, we also step up and … take care of our own. It's as natural as breathing. Now I know how Clan McConnikee responds to a crisis," he said, touching the support column lightly, "and where Patty _herself_ rates within that kinship."

"I don't quite – ."

"If the next call of the day is my last call," Mike said simply, "I know _someone_ – Stoker, McConnikee, fireman – will always be there for my lady green eyes. She won't," he stopped and took a few deep breaths, eyes on his soot-smudged fingers, surprised how hard it was to say, flat-out. "When I'm gone, sir, she won't have to cry alone."


End file.
